


(Don't Stand So) Close To Me

by one_starry_night



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betty Cooper is in love with her Teacher, Betty is 18; Jughead is 22, Character Development, Comparable TV Pairing: Aria x Ezra of PLL, Cute & Funny Choni moments, F/M, Forbidden Love, Forbidden Romance, I think you will be pleasantly surprised by this story; give it a chance., Implied Domestic Violence, Jughead Jones should know better, Jughead wishes Betty wouldn't stand so close, More story than "sex fic.", Not a mere trash drabble., Note: Author reserves the right to change the rating on this story., Pining, Please Note - Rating May Change, Please note: Sex is NOT the focus of this fic., Protective Jughead Jones, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexy stuff to occur later, Student/Teacher pairing, implied sexual references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_starry_night/pseuds/one_starry_night
Summary: She is so young. Beautiful, even.__But so is he.





	1. young teacher

_Young teacher, the subject_

_Of schoolgirl fantasy_

_She wants him so badly_

_Knows what she wants to be_

_Inside her there's longing_

_This girl's an open page_

_Book marking, she's so close now_

_This girl is half his age_

 

**-Don't Stand So Close to Me, Sting and The Police (All Rights Reserved)**

**___**

 

 

“Psst, Betty,” Cheryl whispered vociferously from behind the blonde.

 

“What, Cheryl?” Betty turned around in irritation, coming face to face with the redhead, who unfortunately happened to also be her cousin. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m trying to pay attention _here_.”

 

In response to her cousin’s terseness, Cheryl dipped her head downwards and lowered her voice, “I was talking to Ronnie this morning and she said Mrs. Gibbs went into labor yesterday.”

 

“And?” Betty said, feigning annoyance, “You interrupted my valuable class time to tell me _that?_ ” She almost turned back around again when she felt the tip of Cheryl’s cherry-red nail dig into the back of her pale pink sweater.

 

“No.” Cheryl said in a high-pitched, sing-song voice that Betty knew all too well. Whatever her cousin was about to say – which undoubtedly would have little, if any, redeeming value – _was_ , in all likelihood, some stupid piece of baseless High School gossip.

 

Unperturbed, Betty turned around for the last time, “Out with it, Cheryl. And After this, I don’t want you interrupting me again, got it? I really need to make a B or higher on the next exam to get my mother off my back.”

 

“Touchy much?” Cheryl chided, dropping her voice once more, “Anyways, when I was talking to Ronnie this morning she said that they’ve already hired a replacement teacher to take over for her for the rest of the year.”

 

But Betty was not impressed, and she let Cheryl know just as much, “That’s it? The school hiring a substitute English teacher is your big news?”

 

“You didn’t let me finish, Betty. As I was _say-ing_ ,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “Ronnie got a glimpse of the new guy in the attendance office this morning and she said he’s got this broody loner vibe going on – _very_ Heath Ledger, pre-Dark Knight – and that he’s – in the words of our beloved Veronica Lodge, “So _not_ ‘her type,’ but nevertheless is a totally fuckable babe.”

 

“The new English teacher?” Betty said incredulously. _Yeah right._ If Betty had any reservations about what Cheryl was going to say before quality wise, any and all expectations just flew out the window. “So how old is he anyways?

 

As if channeling _Lolita_ , the classic namesake for such a thing – forbidden love – Cheryl ran her tongue along her lower lip, “Young.”

 

Strangely intrigued, Betty looked at her cousin with a facial expression that said _interesting_. And it was – at least, a little more than she’d initially anticipated her cousin’s gossip would be. With her curiosity piqued, she turned around to face the front of the classroom once more.

 

But exactly _how young_ , Betty wondered as the projector droned on beneath the dimmed lights at the forefront of the classroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She got the answer after third period.

 

Betty shuffled in behind her peers and took a seat in the front row. There was still no sign of any sort of teacher – substitute or otherwise – at the front of the classroom. So, Betty decided to pull out her planner and look over her daily agenda.

 

But in doing so, she failed to see the new teacher walk in accompanied by the school principle to his left. After another minute, she looked up from her pink paisley planner and was shocked to find a rather youthful-looking _man_ – tall, with dark black hair – leaning against the front desk. He waived a causal _goodbye_ to Mr. Weathersby and – as if to announce his presence in a non-threatening way – cleared his throat.

 

A few of the students who were talking in the back row looked up immediately as he pulled his gray hat off and placed it against the desk. They were, Betty assumed, just as startled by how young he looked as she was.

 

“Thanks guys,” he said, directing his voice to the back of the classroom, “Well class, if you haven’t already heard by now, Mrs. Gibbs, your former English Teacher, went into labor last night. And in response to her extended leave of absence, your school recruited me to be your teacher for the remainder of the year, which thankfully isn’t for too much longer, so I don’t expect you guys will have any problems adjusting to me as her temporary replacement. And now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let me properly introduce myself. My name is Mr. Jones, but you can call me _Jughead_ – and please, no digs at the name, okay?” He said with a smirk. Then, he cleared his throat adding, with more of a formal tone, “Anyways, I’m going to be your substitute English teacher until graduation, which for most of you, is less than a month away, _I hope_.”

 

But all that registered to Betty were his indigo eyes, his jet-black hair, and his bright smile. So, it was no surprise, then, when Mr. Jones subsequently went around the classroom – starting at the front, of course – and asked everyone to say their names that when he stopped at Betty, all she could manage to utter was a simple, “What?”

 

Cheryl, who normally sat in the very back of the classroom and had never, ever deviated from that position _until_ today, was conveniently sitting right behind Betty and said it for her. “Her name is Betty Cooper, Mr. Jones.”

 

Then, Cheryl laughed, sending the entire class into a fit of raucous laughter as Betty felt her cheeks heat. She wanted to - but _couldn’t -_ disappear. And so, she did the only conceivable thing she could in a situation like this. She slumped down in her desk and pretended to be invisible for the remainder of the class period.

 

And exactly _how old_ Mr. Jones was, well, Betty couldn’t be sure. But there was no denying it now. He was, just as Cheryl Blossom had said he would be. Mr. Jones, their new English teacher, looked young –

_Very young._

 

 

 

 

 

Betty spent the remainder of the class period avoiding eye-contact with Mr. Jones and the sneering remarks of her peers, which essentially meant drawing pictures of things that _sort of_ resembled daisies ( _very_ angry-looking ones with ill-conceived lines) in the empty corners of her notebook – something which, until now, she had always managed to avoid doing. In-between ruminating over the embarrassing moment that had transpired at the start of class – staring at the teacher like a deer caught in veritable headlights – Betty decided that she would never again sit at the front row of _this class._

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

 

After an hour of agony, the splintering sound of the bell behind her desk sounded a cry of freedom and Betty bolted from her plastic chair.

 

She had just about shuffled past two of her peers when the newly familiar voice of Mr. Jones called her by her first name.

 

“Betty, is it? Ms. Cooper, uh, a word if you don’t mind.”

 

 _Oh god._ Betty turned around, eyes locking immediately with Mr. Jones. And right as they did, her cousin Cheryl, who was now walking in the opposite direction of Betty as she exited the classroom, made a _less-than-subtle_ gesture by sticking the tip of her tongue against her cheek. She ran it down the interior of her cheek for another second before giggling subtly and whispering so that Betty could hear her – but Mr. Jones definitely _could not_ – “Ready to get on _your knees?_ ”

 

In response, Betty turned bright red and looked back at Mr. Jones as the remaining throng of students left the classroom, which essentially left the two of them alone.

 

“This will only take a second of your time, Ms. Cooper. It seems,” he said purposefully in-between glancing at a sheet of paper on his desk, “that with Mrs. Gibbs out for the remainder of the school year that the position of your faculty supervisor for the school newspaper has vested to me.”

 

“What?” Again, whatever Mr. Jones has said – or _tried_ to say – clearly hadn’t registered with her at all. She was far too busy staring – nay, gaping at the young new professor before her, liking what she saw and at the time hating herself for it. Was she, Betty Cooper, as shallow as the rest of her peers?

 

(She’d always tried _not_ to be).

 

“Look, I get it, Mrs. Cooper. It’s the end of the year and you just want to graduate and get the hell out of here, am I right?” Jughead said facetiously, a knowing grin plastered on his face.

 

But the joke, if that even was one, was clearly lost on her because she couldn’t stop staring at him. “I, uh, I mean –.” Her words, they were not forthcoming – or forming coherently _at all_.

 

“Betty,” Jughead said a bit more softly this time, deviating a little from his previously sardonic tone, “Listen, I know that the school newspaper is probably the last thing on your mind right now what with your upcoming graduation and all. _However_ , I’m willing to take certain – _how_ do I put this – certain _liberties_ with what you choose to write for the paper in the next four weeks.”

 

And with that, Betty snapped back to reality, for she had never, ever, been granted creative liberties with any of her pieces before. Mrs. Gibbs, who was an excellent copy editor, was in all honestly, a bit of a hard-ass. She was old school. She did things by the book.

 

“Really?!” Betty managed to say, a bit more enthusiastically that she had meant to.

 

“Yes, _really_. We can discuss exactly what that entails after school. Do you prefer to meet here or in newspaper room?”

 

“ _Here_ , we can meet here!” Her voice sounded a little too elated, but she would be damned if she was going to miss out on _this_ opportunity – the opportunity to use her own voice in an original story, even if it was only a school publication.

 

“I like an enthusiastic writer,” Jughead said pointedly, drumming his fingers against the desk and raising his eyebrows, “It shows you’ve got grit. Alright, _here_ it is, then. See you later, Coop – _er_ , do you prefer to go by Betty or _Ms. Cooper_.”

 

“I uh, either one.”

 

“Alright, well you better head to your next class. I won’t have Weathersby firing me on my first day for making you late.”

 

“I uh, yeah,” Betty said, walking backwards, “Okay,” she clutched her books tightly and then whispered, “bye.”

 

“Until again,” Jughead said dryly, doing a mock salute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And as Betty headed to her next class with a little _too much_ pep in her step, she bit her lower lip smiled from ear to ear. And that same _I’m so happy I could burst_ smile did not dissipate. In fact, she wore the cheeky grin until well past noon, which didn’t go unnoticed by one of her peers, Reggie Mantel, who sought to tease the normally uptight blonde. He tilted his head to the right and gave Betty the once over with his brown eyes, furrowing his brow at he looked her up and down, “What the hell are you so happy about, Cooper?”

 

“Because, Reggie,” Betty said, turning to the side to face him, “I might get to finally publish something that _I want_ to write. Isn’t that exciting?”

 

“Wait, let me get this straight, the reason your smiling like that is because your _happy_ about getting _more work?_ Oh-kay…” Reggie said, eyes widening as he turned his head away from hers and looked down at his desk.

 

Still beaming, Betty shrugged and turned back around in her seat.

 

Even Reggie’s goading, which normally irked her, could not diminish her unbridled enthusiasm.

 

Nothing could.

 ...

Unfortunately for Betty though, in her excitement, she had forgotten that her mother had grounded her and that she no longer had access to her car, which was the usual way she got home. And the bus, her only means of transportation this week, always left the school at precisely 3:55 pm, the fact of which would prove to have disastrous consequences for her later that evening.

...

 

 

 

 

 

The last bell rang.

 

Betty hastily gathered her shoulder bag and notebook in a quick and expedient manner, leaving a spinning pencil behind in her wake that rolled to the end of the desk and dipped downwards, hitting the floor with a soft _boink!_

 

She sped-walked down the hall, practically sprinting like a sprite as her classmates headed home for the day. Then, as she got a little closer to the door, she adjusted her posture and her speed, slowing suddenly to heave out a sigh as she adjusted her pale pink cardigan, which had wrinkled due to the excess speed at which she was walking down the long hall. Then, she stopped completely and let her head dip to the left so that she could see whether or not Mr. Jones was in the classroom – he was, sitting at the same desk at which she’d met him earlier, leafing through a pile of papers, his dark hair falling beneath one eye as he did so. She looked at him again through the glass panel, observing his long fingers comb through his hair, temporarily pushing the stray hair back into a resting position behind his head. Two seconds later, the strands escaped again, cascading down his head and obstructing his vision once more.

 

_Fuck._

 

It was an exercise in futility that she wanted to watch again and again.

 

She felt her cheeks heat as she regained her composure, sighed, and pushed down on the bronze door handle.

 

“Ah, Betty.” Jughead looked up, his wayward hair shifting a little, “Just in time,” he said, looking down at the pile of papers between his fingers, “I was just going through some of the newspaper archives here as well as some of your old articles, which are quite good by the way, he said whilst still looking down, “And you’ve been writing for…?”

 

“Four years” Betty moved closer to his desk, brushing her hands against its wooden edge, “I’ve been writing since I started school here.”

 

“Ah, even better,” Jughead said, “that means I don’t have to school you in the little things – dangling modifiers, you know – please, pull up a seat,” Jughead said, motioning to the chair beside him.

 

“Okay,” she whispered gingerly. She sat down, though not too close and averted her gaze.

 

“So,” Jughead offered, opening his hands against the desk, “Do you have any initial ideas you want to try out on me? I’m a bit tired today, forgive me, so any ideas I have will probably pale in comparison to your own.”

 

Out of habit or something else – an unconscious desire to flirt, perhaps, or impress her new teacher, inevitably, Betty bit her lower lip and angled her body downwards to pull a well-worn spiral from her shoulder bag. She sat it in her lap and placed her hands on its battered front cover, “This,” Betty said, looking up at him once more, abject determination in her eyes, “is the spiral notebook that I’ve been keeping with ideas in it since freshman year.”

 

Surprised, Jughead raised his eyebrows in approval and said, if for no other reason than to be humorous, “Well, at least we know we won’t run out of any, which is great Betty, very good – yes, I suspect our productivity will be at its peak today, So – he offered, placing one hand on the desk, “Is anything keeping you up at night or saying _write me_ , Betty Cooper?”

 

With that, Betty gave him the widest, cheekiest grin and said, “How much time do we have?”

 

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Jughead said with a smirk as Betty passed him the notebook and drummed the pads of her hands against her knees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As Betty walked down the empty hallway, she ignored the obvious signs of hunger that her lower stomach was sending her. Instead, she walked at a leisurely pace, smiling – and relishing in – the two hours that she had spent with Mr. Jones. Instead of sidelining her ideas, he had listened to them intently, unbridled enthusiasm evidenced on his face.

 

It was, if nothing else, refreshing to have someone eager to hear what she had to say. For many talked – to her, anyways, but few, it seemed knew how to listen – especially not her own mother, who ignored her ‘silly little story proposals’ all the time.

 

Betty sighed contentedly as she rounded the corner, passing the teacher’s lounge on her way to the parking lot.

 

She was still looking at the linoleum floors – gray and dingy and caked with half a dozen dirty footprints, when suddenly, she looked through the glass doors adjacent to the parking lot, realizing at that exact moment why there were in fact so many spotty impressions of various types of shoes on the floor.

 

A downpour like a monsoon had descended upon the tiny town, filling the street and the adjacent sidewalks with a torrential of clear rain. And in that same moment, Betty remembered.

 

She had no car and now, no way of getting home – at least, not in this weather. Walking, for now, was definitely out of the question.

 

 _Shit_ , she wailed internally, berating herself for forgetting. She clutched her notebook to her chest as she pressed the double doors and stepped outside. There was no way, she decided, that she was going to call her parents and risk another _I-told-you-so_ lecture from her mother.

 

So, Betty sighed and surrendered to her fate: waiting indefinitely.

 

But for _how long?_

 

 

 

 

 

Nearly twenty minutes later, Betty was still waiting outside beneath the covered black awning next to the parking lot when she heard, yet again, the newly familiar voice of Mr. Jones. A voice that she had already taken an extremely superficial liking to.

 

“Betty?”

 

 _Oh god._ She heard the voice and sound of steps from behind her and turned around.

 

“Hey,” Jughead smiled, tilting his head and gaze in the direction of the parking lot. A second later he turned back to her, adjusting the strap of his bag against his right shoulder blade. “It’s late, Cooper, shouldn’t you be at home by now? Because _we all_ have to go home at some point, even the most dedicated among us,” he jeered with a half-smile.

 

Betty blinked. Then, she looked at him, looking at her. _God_. “I uh, what I mean to say is –”

 

But suddenly, Jughead figured it out. It was well past six in the evening and she probably didn’t have a means of getting home now. “Oh, I’m sorry Betty, you don’t have a car, do you? Not that I assume every student owns a car – that’s not what I meant. What I mean _is_ – you don’t have any way of getting home, do you?”

 

“Yes. Er – _no_.” Betty shook her head, “I mean, I _sort of_ have a car, but…”

 

Betty looked at Jughead and paused imperceptibly. She quickly thought about what to say – or _not_ say – next. It would be embarrassing to tell him that she was “grounded,” so she decided the best course of action would to give him a vague, half-answer. “My car is indisposed at the moment.”

 

“Oh geez, okay, look,” Jughead said, clearly wondering what the protocol would be in this situation, because, he had in fact kept her over the time in which they probably should have been working. So, it was his fault, technically, and since he was the responsible party, he decided, she was his burden to bear. “Let me take you home,” he said in earnest, “The busses aren’t running now, and you can’t really walk home in this weather.” Jughead looked past her shoulder at the pouring down rain and decided, yes, he was doing the right thing here.

 

“No,” she said in admission, turning her head to look at the overcast sky as the rain continued running down the drain adjacent to where they were standing, “I suppose I can’t. But, I mean, are you sure that…?”

 

“Positive,” Jughead said, putting his palm up to stop her from arguing.

 

“Okay,” Betty whispered, pulling her notebook more firmly against her chest.

 

 

 

 

 

Jughead’s car smelled of worn leather and old books.

 

As he drove them down the street, Betty tried her best not to look at him as she felt her heart fall into her stomach. She exhaled in short spurts as her fingers brushed against the leather seat beneath her legs, concentrating on the homes to her right as if they were the most interesting thing in the world to her in that moment.

 

Jughead made some light conversation, which she appreciated, nodding briefly in her seat and smiling to herself, but never, ever turning aside to look at him.

 

“It’s just off this road,” Betty said softly, looking at the street up ahead as they passed another house, which, she again studied – acting as if Georgian architecture was something both novel and profound – never mind that she’d seen that same damn home countless times.

 

“The white one up ahead?” Jughead turned to look at her side profile. She seemed to be lost in thought, he observed, glancing over at the houses that she was so intently focused on.

 

“That’s the one,” Betty sighed, thinking about how all good things must come to an end as Jughead pulled his car up to its front.

 

But then, right as Jughead was about to park, she could suddenly hear the raised voices of both her mother and father emanating from the living room, where both of their silhouettes could be seen against the window, arguing again about one thing or another.

 

Betty froze as Jughead parked the car. Then, he turned to look at her when the screaming started up again, a frenzy of two singular voices bleeding into one, creating – or so she thought – the most discordant symphony of expletives that she had heard yet (even for them).

 

And, _AND_ …

 

If that wasn’t bad enough –

 

Jughead, she was certain, was hearing every _damn_ word.

 

Betty felt wetness pool beneath her green eyes. She wanted to run – out of his car and away from there – anywhere. Instead, she did something far more stupid, after another minute she began to cry – softly at first so as not to let him see, but then, the soft tears turned into real ones. She put her hands over her face and sucked in her breath.

 

And that was when she felt a hand – _his_ hand – brush her shoulder.

 

“Betty.” The way he said her name sounded short, but nice all the same.

 

“What?” She whispered. And now she had to look at him and so, she did.

 

Jughead, it seemed, wasn’t too certain about what he was about to say, but then, they both heard the unmistakable sound of something shattering inside of her home – a dish, probably – so he seemed, at least in Betty’s perception, to have decided upon some surer course of action and said simply, “I am going to Pop’s to do some work _and_ ,” he said gingerly, “If you would like to, you are more than welcome to tag alone. We can get burgers and talk about the paper some more, since,” he added gently, “we did only get through half of that notebook of yours, technically.”

 

Betty smiled through her tears at him. “Okay,” she said, grateful to be anywhere that wasn’t here, even if it was only for a couple of hours.

 

“But,” he said in jest, “it’s my turn to do some talking. Think you can handle that, Ms. Cooper? Can you handle me giving you some feedback?”

 

Betty nodded and wiped the tears from her face. Then, she smiled at him and turned her head to stare out the front of his windshield, occasionally stealing glances at the young teacher beside her, but taking great care to only do so rarely.

 

She didn’t want him noticing her _noticing him._

…

 

 

 

 

 

After Jughead’s truck left the general vicinity of her neighborhood, Betty breathed in a collective sigh of relief. Going to Pop’s with Jughead was the reprieve she needed from her increasingly chaotic home life, if only for tonight. At least she wouldn’t have to be home to hear the tail end of whatever it was her parents were arguing over _this time_. So, that was something – an hour to avoid the inevitable, an escape from it, perhaps – maybe _more._

 

But it was something, and for that, she was grateful. And as she turned and looked over at Jughead, who drove silently and in a relaxed manner beside her, she wondered what he was thinking. But – she guessed – he probably felt sorry for her. And certainly, was probably thinking, but not saying what anyone else would have by now: What the hell _was that?_

 

“I’m sorry,” Betty said, looking down at the floor of Jughead’s vehicle. It wasn’t as though they could ever be more than a teacher and his over-eager peer, sure, but even so, she hadn’t wanted him to form a bad impression of her (or her family) this early on. “I’m sorry,” she tried to apologize again, a habit which she had adopted due largely in part to being ignored so often at home (and being dismissed by her very overbearing mother), “That you had to hear and see –”

 

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Jughead said in a softer tone than he’d used when he’d initially invited her to Pop’s. It wasn’t her fault, really, so why should she be the one apologizing?

 

It was as though Betty could feel his eyes touch her and when she looked up – her instinct had been partially correct – he was in fact looking at her in between watching the road. But where the looks meant to say _I feel sorry for you_ , convey that he cared, or ( _or_ ) something else? But Betty decided that she was being silly. _Of course_ he just felt sorry for her. That was, she reasoned, the only way she’d ever get an invite to a place like Pop’s _with_ him.

 

“My parents,” She began to say. She felt the need to explain something to him – not everything – but, enough.

 

But Jughead had already figured it out. As the byproduct of a dysfunctional family himself, he was less unfazed by what had transpired at the Cooper household than she probably realized.

 

And he decided to let her know just as much.

 

“Fight all the time?” He said, completing her sentence easily. “It’s alright, Betty, you don’t need to explain anything to me, I get it. And I’ll draw a line in the sand after this – we don’t have to ever broach this topic again if you don’t want to, but you _might_ feel better in knowing that my parents used to fight like that all the time too.”

 

 _Oh_. Betty wondered what about. Surely, though, it wasn’t the same thing as her parents fought about – potential [impending] divorce _and_ cheating among other things.

 

“Anyways,” Jughead’s expression intensified as he quickly changed the subject to a lighter one, “I hope you’re hungry, Betty Cooper, because I’m about to eat my weight in burgers when we get there. I’m starving.”

 

With that, Betty smiled and momentarily forgot the real reason why she was in the car with Jughead in the first place as she turned to look at his side profile. She decided she would study him for a little while longer _because_ , the odds were, that they would never again be in this close of a proximity to one another. So, she wanted to be sure to really get a good look at him for posterity’s sake (which was – of course, bullshit).

... 

The _real_ reason she wanted to stare was painfully clear.

...

 

 

 

 

 

“After you.” Jughead held open the Deco-door at the front entrance of pops and allowed Betty to walk in ahead of him.

 

Betty paused past the doorway and turned around, eyes locking with his. She watched as Jughead proceeded to take off his beanie and ran a hand through his mussed-up hair before putting it back again.

 

Jughead smiled politely and straightened his hat, looking at her expectantly as he did so.

 

“Where do you want to sit?” She offered, averting her gaze from his.

 

“Anywhere you like.”

 

Betty cupped her fingers together and locked them in an embrace as she tried not to look him in the eyes, which seemed bluer somehow beneath the neon lights and brightly colored interior of the restaurant. Then, she tilted her head and took in a panoramic view of the diner, and finally, decided it might be the better course of action to sit at a more spacious table.

 

“Booth?” She said finally, leaving it up to him to decide otherwise.

 

Jughead held out his palm in accord, “Lead the way.”

 

Once they settled into the cherry-red vinyl booth in the back corner of the restaurant, Pop Tate, the owner of the establishment, brought them two menus and said he’d ‘return in a jiffy’ to take their orders. Once Pop Tate disappeared down the neon yellow aisle, Jughead – both hands still holding the menu – looked over at Betty, who was looking intently at the Bauhaus font. He watched as she resigned herself to something on the menu, sighing inaudibly as she sat the plastic down against the table and began, much to his confusion, to pull something from the side pocket of her shoulder bag. Then, she zipped that pocket up with a snap and placed the binding of a book on the linoleum table, opened it somewhere in the middle of its binding and began to read.

 

Amused, Jughead took a sip from his porcelain coffee cup and sat it down against the tabletop, squinting to see it he could discern what she was reading – _Letters to A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke_. He smiled, then, because he had read that exact same book when he was going through his own crisis of sorts.

 

Now, with his interest piqued, Jughead grabbed the handle of his coffee cup and took another swig of the smooth black liquid, pressing his lips together and savoring the taste against his palette to see if she would _keep_ reading. When she didn’t look up at him or make any eye contact, he wondered if maybe she felt like she was encroaching on his space somehow, or perhaps she was feeling decidedly uncomfortable here. He didn’t want that, so he set the coffee cup down on the table and proceeded to say her name, effectively breaking her concentration, which he imagined was hard to have anyways giving the light music playing beneath the dim lights of the diner.

 

“Betty,” he watched as she looked up at him, appearing startled by the sound of her own name, which, he assumed was from the events that had transpired back at her house, “you don’t have to read, I wasn’t even going to start on anything work related until after we’ve eaten and continued our discussion from earlier.”

 

“I – ,” She floundered, not quite knowing what to say. She hadn’t wanted to be a burden to him, so she figured it was better to just pretend that she was invisible rather than interrupt the time he was going to use, as he had said, _to work_.

 

“Where did you get that book?” Jughead inquired, taking another sip of his coffee, fingers curling against the rim of the cup.

 

“The library.” Betty looked down at the book, averting her gaze from his as she explained, “I was looking for something to read and the librarian, she said I would like it because she knows I write for fun,” Betty shrugged, “Have you read it?”

 

“I have,” Jughead said, looking down at his coffee cup, “When I was a college freshman,” He began to say, “which wasn’t all that long ago, I had this one professor, he was a linguist, a pretty well-known one actually. He grew up in Europe and later became a U.S. citizen where he started teaching at the college I went to. Anyways, he saw that I was having a hard time adjusting, I guess, and recommended it to me. He said that it would help me adjust, maybe, but said that it was an absolute must for any aspiring writer.”

 

“Oh,” Betty said with a smile, “And did it? Help you, I mean, with whatever you were dealing with?” She felt like she was prying, but he had offered the information first, so she felt that had given her the green light to ask him things, provided they weren’t too intrusive.

 

“It did,” Jughead nodded and took another sip of coffee, adding, “it’s one of my absolute favorites.” He smiled and looked down at the table, which helped to put Betty at ease.

 

A minute later, Pop Tate appeared with a pen and pad, “Alright, you two ready to order?”

 

“Of course, Pop.” Jughead glanced at Pop Tate and then looked over in her direction, “After you.”

 

 

 

 

 

They ate in silence, partly, and then Betty decided to be a bit bolder.

 

“Mr. Jones,” Betty placed half of her burger down, “Can I ask you something?” She said, ears now burning. It was a bit invasive, maybe, but given the one-sided conversation she had shared with Cheryl and then subsequently finding out she was, in fact, correct, she wanted to glean just how right on the money her surreptitious cousin was. More often than not, Cheryl was largely correct in most of the high school gossip she touted. Betty paused and looked down at the table. Then, she looked back up at him.

 

She wondered if he would be mad, but she couldn’t _not_ ask.

 

“That depends on what it is,” he said kindly, “But please, call me Jughead.”

 

“Okay,” Betty said, laughing a little, “How,” she began, placing the back of her hand on her head, averting her gaze as the words came out, “If it’s okay to ask, exactly how old are you?” Then she regretted it instantly, staring at the table as she ran her hand down her ponytail.

 

Jughead’s normally stoic expression shifted. Amused, he gave her a sort of half-smile, pursing his lips together, “I take it your classmates are already stating the obvious, huh?”

 

“I, yeah,” Betty laughed nervously. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Jughead thumbed his napkin, looking at it and then back up at her, “I’m _twenty-two_.”

 

_(H-holy shit…)_

“Y-you are,” Betty couldn’t quite contain the surprise evident in her voice, “Wow, that’s so…”

 

“Young,” he offered, not wanting her to feel any more uncomfortable after what had transpired earlier.

 

Betty nodded.

 

“It’s okay, Betty.” Jughead raised his eyebrows, “You can say _young_ , it’s not a dirty word.” He said half-jokingly, bringing his coffee cup back up to his lips and taking another sip as he looked at her from across the table.

 

 _Funny_ , Betty thought. She laughed in spite of herself and drank another sip of her vanilla milkshake.

 

 

 

 

 

The car ride back to her house was pleasant enough.

 

Jughead turned on the evening news and made a bit of small talk about the town’s unusual obsession with ‘perfect lawns’ which made Betty nod in agreement, noting that her parents were always worried that their rose bushes didn’t look as ‘vibrant as Mrs. Smith’s,’ one of their neighbors across the way. Jughead smiled at her comment and kept his eye on the road.

 

And it was still raining, though not nearly as heavily as earlier, but the light drizzle managed to cloud the car’s exterior, so it was hard to see the neighborhood she knew so well through the windows of his truck. After another minute, he switched the station to something lighter and classical music began to drift into the interior of the car. Betty hummed as his truck rounded the corner and pulled up to the front curb of her house.

 

The rain began pelting down again as Jughead’s foot pushed against the brake pedal, leaving the car at a standstill as he shifted the right gear into park. And as he did so, his beanie loosened from his head, freeing a stray curl that was formerly tucked under it’s cotton folds.

 

Betty sat quietly in her seat and waited for him to say something.

 

“And this is your stop, Ms. Cooper.” Jughead turned to look at her, one hand resting against the steering wheel of the car.

 

“Thanks, Betty said softly, adding, “Thanks for, well, you know.”

 

“Anytime, oh and I have something – another book for you to read at your leisure – I think you might like since your enjoying _Letter’s to A Young Poet_ so much."

 

“Really?” Betty said, expression softening. She grinned as she traced the silver locket around her neck, a habit she had picked up out of nervousness.

 

“Yeah,” he said with a wave of his hand, placing it back against the steering wheel, “I’ll dig it out of my hoarder stash of books and old newspapers and bring it for you tomorrow.”

 

Then, he looked back at her and it was then that Betty swore, or at least she thought that she saw, his eyes dart to her lips.

 

And so, running on sheer instinct, Betty did something (which later that night would shock even herself). She leaned into him, closing the gap between them, and proceeded to kiss him, leaving her lips pressed gently against his for a little longer than a second.

 

But Jughead had no time to react as it had happened so fast, so suddenly.

 

He didn’t pull away, _but_ he didn’t exactly kiss her back either.

 

But she regretted it instantly, pulling away and looking at him with mild horror – she was sure – written all over her face.

 

It was certainly written on his.

 

But what was even more surprisingly was the stunned expression and half-smile – an awkward, _what-just-happened_ kind of half-smile – that appeared on Jughead’s face a beat later.

 

“Oh my god,” Betty whispered, covering her mouth with both hands, for even she was surprised at her own boldness.

 

Jughead opened his mouth as if to say something, but then decided against it.

 

Horrified, Betty began bumbling over her words, “Oh my god, Mr. Jones, I mean, _Jughead_. I am so so sorry.” She began perseverating, “It’s just that _, I never_ – well – no one _ever_ pays any attention to me and I just thought that, I don’t know – _god_.” Tears sprung to her eyes and Betty quickly grabbed her backpack from the floorboard of his car and fumbled for the door handle.

 

“Betty, wait,” Jughead put his hand on her shoulder in hopes that she’d turn back around.

 

“I should go,” Betty said, trying (but failing) to find the lock on the car door. And a second later, she did, so she unbuckled her seat belt when she felt Jughead grab her hand.

 

“Betty, wait a second,” he said kindly, quietly, looking at her and down at her hand. Really, all he wanted to do was just assure her that while that couldn’t happen again – probably – that he wasn’t mad. If her home life was anything like his – and from what he’d seem it probably was – he didn’t want her stressing over this.

 

“I should go, I’m sorry, Jughead. Oh my god, I am _so sorry!_ ” Betty threw the door to his truck open, closed it in the same instance, and proceeded to run up the front steps of her house as quickly and expediently as humanly possible.

 

 _Well, that was unexpected_ , he mused. _Very much so._ Jughead watched her disappear into her house and sighed.

 

Still stunned, Jughead sat in his car, head against the back of his seat and just sat there for another minute or two. He placed his fingertips against his lips and couldn’t help but smile.

 

 _His_ student had kissed _him_. Not knowing what this meant, or the repercussions it would have later, Jughead proceeded to turn the ignition on and drive down the street. After another minute, his truck was gone.

 

And the picture-perfect neighborhood was just as it was before, devoid of any hint of scandal _or_ the accidental moonlight tryst between a teacher and _his student_.

 

For now.

___

To be continued.

 

 

_**Author's Note: For reference - the relationship between Betty and Jughead in this story will be akin to an Aria x Ezra pairing.** _

 

_**I've been away for a while now, I know.** _

_**Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, please comment below. It really means a lot. -Starry**   **< 3**_


	2. a chance encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Betty's increasingly chaotic home life. 
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> And, Betty worries about the repercussions of the kiss. And more.

_“And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day,_

_with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.”_

 

**― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita**

 

 

**__**

Betty was grateful that the sound of the television blaring in the den drowned out the sound of her crying as she ran up the stairs. Although no one had _seen_ her come in, she was almost certain that they – her mother _or_ father – had _heard_ her come in. She didn’t want to risk an altercation in the hallway, a _where the hell have you been_ , _Betty_ followed by – if her mother was feeling particularly spiteful that day – a tight slap across her face, which, as of late had been a rather frequent occurrence.

 

She blamed the impending divorce, which her parents had been putting off – in her opinion, for far too long now. And anyways, this wasn’t anything new – it wasn’t as though mother had never hit her before. _She had._ She just wished that it wasn’t happening so often.

 

But what could she do: _run away?_

 

That was hardly a viable option.

 

Until college started in the fall, she was stuck.

 

So, Betty quickly wiped the last of the tears from her face, threaded her ponytail through her curled fingers and pushed open her bedroom door with her freehand. As the door creaked open, she noticed straightway that her mother had been in there earlier that day at some point – had done her worst from the look of things. There, sitting at the edge of her bed was her outfit for the next day – a mix of annoying pale pastel florals beneath another eerily situated pastel cardigan – the usual. _God._

 

For once, all Betty wanted to have some autonomy in what she dressed in – what she wore and in what (and whom) she _did._

 

But tonight, her thoughts were elsewhere as she pressed her back to her bedroom door and sucked in her tears.

 

Tomorrow she would have to face _him_.

 

In twelve hours, humiliation would follow a stern talking to. She was certain of it. Surely Mr. Jones would berate her when he had the chance?

_Right?_

 

It was all the other adults around _here_ – the town filled with secrets and falsehoods piled on like bodies – ever did to her, anyways.

 

But then Betty remembered the way he had pressed his fingertips to her shoulder, the soft inflection in his voice, the unusual kindness that seemed to emanate from his being, which was why she had immediately like him so much, had felt drawn to him. She was the moth and he was the candle, his blue eyes burning an invisible hole her abdomen every time he looked at her: _come closer_ , they said wordlessly, inviting her in, allaying all fears with their blueness.

 

He hadn’t _seemed_ angry – shocked, yes – but not angry. And so, she willed herself to stop crying, rocking herself a little as she went into her bathroom and started the shower. And as she slipped quietly out of her clothes – a mish-mash of Tory Burch crossed with Lilly Pulitzer – she reminded herself that Jughead hadn’t yelled at her _at all_.

 

Which was, in all honesty, a sharp contrast from what she was used to.

 

(At least, _at home_ ).

 

But then, as the warm water splayed against her chest and cascaded down her ivory skin she remembered: most, if not _all_ , moths died even going anywhere near an open flame, never mind actually touching it.

 

And Betty hadn’t gone near said flame – no – she had kissed the flame, welcoming the heat with opens arms.

 

Too bad the flame was a cold one – one with dark blue eyes and even darker hair.

 

For now.

…

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, before English class had even started, Betty had formulated a plan of sorts. She would simply walk in the classroom, avert her gaze from his, and proceed to walk to the very back row. Then, when she was sure he wasn’t looking, she would pull out her textbook and hide behind its cardboard binding – and, maybe, cover herself with an oversized sweater.

 

And said plan would have worked – almost – but as she walked in the classroom, Jughead, who from what she could tell, clearly wanted to talk to her right away, but couldn’t what with class beginning – simply directed his gaze at her and said kindly, “Uh, Ms. Cooper. Just a second, please.”

 

Embarrassed, Betty looked up and tried her best to maintain the last iota of composure she could muster ( _steady breaths, Betty_ – she whispered to herself, a simple mantra to keep her from saying or doing anything to further embarrass herself around him).

She managed a fake smile, thanking for perhaps the first time in a long time, her own mother for teaching her how to be fake, how to pretend.

 

“Can we talk after class today?” Jughead said easily, brushing a stray hair from his face as he thumbed his gray cap on his desk, “About the paper, of course.”

 

Betty nodded a yes and tugged at the straps of her back-pack.

 

“Great.” Jughead smiled politely and Betty took that as her cue to sit down with the rest of the students.

 

With her worry spell broken – those thoughts that had managed to keep her up half the night, ruminating over impossible possibilities: _oh my god what is he doing to say or do_ – she turned and took a seat closer to the back of the classroom, not wanting him to take too much notice of her – at least, not for today anyways.

 

But later, it would become apparent that he was thinking about _something_.

 

She just didn’t know what, though.

…

 

 

 

 

 

Sometime in the middle of Jughead’s lecture on _The Great Gatsby_ and the many perils of The American Dream and how Mr. Gatsby had succumbed to its wiles, Jughead, who could clearly sense that the students in the back of the classroom weren’t paying attention to his lecture, turned around and said humorously, “I can hear you snickering from the back, Ms. Topaz. And hey, I get it, this book isn’t nearly as riveting as I make it seem, I know. So,” Jughead placed the piece of chalk held between two fingers on the desk, “Care to tell me exactly what’s so funny?”

 

“No, Mr. Jones,” But Toni continued to chuckle, which lead to a cacophony of other laughs from her peers around her.

 

And so, not wanting his students to hate him on the second day, Jughead decided to play along, to give them their five-minute break. He cleared his throat and said, “Oh come on, Toni. Ms. Gibbs isn’t here – tell me, then, what is so decidedly funny? Is it my hat? Because I know it’s terrible, but I’m not going to stop wearing it. Sorry to disappoint you all.”

 

“No, sir,” Toni said with a cackle.

 

“Alright, Ms. Topaz. Look, if you aren’t at least going to tell me what’s so funny, then were going to have to go back to boring ole’ Gatsby.”

 

Toni stopped laughing and went silent.

 

“Alright, that’s better then,” Jughead said, “Anyways, where were we?”

 

But five minutes later, Toni decided to try again, only this time – rather than interrupting – she decided to try Mr. Jones in the form of a question. She brushed her light pink hair behind her head and raised her hand.

 

“Yes, Toni,” Jughead raised one eyebrow, already suspicious that she wasn’t going to ask about the lesson.

 

“Say, Mr. Jones?” Toni pressed her lips together, pretending to look serious.

 

But Jughead knew better. He waited, though.

 

Managing her most serious tone yet, Toni said in a dead-pan voice, “Do you have _a girlfriend?_ I’m asking for a friend.”

 

And with that, Betty swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry as her stomach was yet again filled with invisible butterflies. For it never occurred to her that Mr. Jones might actually have a girlfriend. He could inevitably be a taken man – a man whom she had forced a kiss upon.

 

_Shit._

 

In response to Toni's question, several of the students – Cheryl Blossom included, began to snicker wildly. Mildly amused, but ever so slightly irritated, Jughead cleared his throat and said nicely, “Ms. Topaz, we really can’t waste anymore class time today. I’m sorry. Oh,” But then, as if to goad his students, he added, “you can tell that friend of yours, that I’m _not_ into people who don’t love F. Scott Fitzgerald. Sorry to disappoint.” He said dryly.

 

But Cheryl, who was sitting next to Toni, only managed to encourage her further, “Oh _come on_ , Mr. Jones. She was just joking.”

 

“Yes, I’m well aware, Cheryl. However, I’m not paid to give you guys tiny snippets about my personal life. Anyways—”

 

“But Mr. Jones," Toni said in earnest, “Can’t we at least know one thing about you? I’ll shut the hell up after this and listen to you talk all about Mr. Gatsby’s sweaters and the meaning of life or whatever – I promise.”

 

“Ugh,” Jughead let out a palpable sound of exasperation. They weren’t going to make it easy for him, clearly.

 

“Me too, Mr. Jones. I second that," Cheryl said, perking up at her desk, “So, _do you?_ ”

 

Betty, who had looked up suddenly, couldn’t help but stare, wondering what – if anything – he would say. But she was curious too: _did he?_

But the next word he said – a single syllable – had her breathing in a very private sigh of relief.

 

"No," he said, looking down as he smiled, "no girlfriend." Then, as if he could feel Betty staring at him, he looked up and their eyes locked for a brief moment. “Anyways, guys, we have to get back to the lesson plan for today, sorry.”

 

Betty felt her cheeks. Then, she looked back at her desk and subsequently, stared at her textbook and the word _Daisy_ amidst the text for the remainder of the hour, wondering what the hell was so special about her anyways.

 

Jay Gatsby, she decided, was a damn fool –

 

Falling in love with a woman that would never be his.

 

_Idiot._

…

 

 

 

 

 

The bell sounded too soon.

 

Back-pack already half slung around her arm, Betty was up in a flash and was prepared to – if necessary – run out the door on the side furthest from Mr. Jones’s desk.

 

But Jughead was quicker.

 

For as soon as Betty was very nearly at the threshold of the doorframe, he stood up at his desk, walked around it, and subsequently stood directly in front of it, ensuring that she couldn’t leave without passing by him. And he made his interaction seem very natural between the two of them, saying goodbye to one of the students that sat in the front and reminding him to see him another time about extra credit. And then – just as said student passed by him – he said her name.

 

“Miss Cooper, a word, if you please.”

 

It was like déjà vu all over again, with Betty turning around coming face to face with the young man, whom she had gotten to know in the span of a single day. She watched as Jughead walked back around his desk, sat down, and then started rummaging around his desk for something.

 

Knowing there was no getting out of this now – _the talk_ , which she already knew was coming – Betty sighed and sat down on a desk in the front row. Still clutching the straps of her backpack, she watched him curiously.

 

“I know it’s somewhere here, Ms. Cooper – ah.” Jughead pulled a blue book from beneath his stack of papers, smiled and held it up to her, “For you. This is the book I was talking about last night.”

 

Betty smiled. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she stood up from the student desk and took the book from him. She flipped the book over, read a few lines that said _critics’ choice_ and _a writer’s favorite_ and then looked back up at him with excited eyes.

 

“I _think_ you might like it,” Jughead said earnestly. “It reminds me of _Letters to A Young Poet_ , but it’s a little more – how can I put this – lighthearted.”

 

“Thank you.” Betty tucked her arms around the book. Then she got quiet, wondering what would happen next. She watched as Jughead smiled politely, got up from his desk and went over to shut the door until there was only a one-inch crack between it and the wall. Then he walked back to his desk and sat down, balling his hands into a fist, which he settled against the edge of the desk.

 

 _Oh, here it comes._ Betty stiffened and held the binding of the book against her chest.

 

“Also.” Jughead looked up at her, “I wanted to talk to you about – well, about what happened.”

 

“Mr. Jones,” Betty squeaked immediately, “I am so so sorry, really. I –”

 

Jughead smiled kindly and held out his palm to her to silence her. “Please,” he said, “don’t be.”

 

“So, you’re not mad?” Betty bit her lower lip. She felt so embarrassed.

 

“I – no. Of course not, Betty. If you had stayed I would have explained as much, but—”

 

“I ran off, I know. Sorry.” Betty nibbled on her lower lip in frustration and looked down.

 

“Anyways,” Jughead said softly, but politely, “I just wanted to clear the air with you, Ms. Cooper. And while I’m not mad – you have to understand that as long as I’m your teacher, that really can’t happen again. You understand of course, right Ms. Cooper?”

 

“I – what,” Betty stared at him, “Oh. Yes, yes of course. I, sorry –”

 

“Hey, what did I say about apologizing?” Jughead’s voice and subsequent expression softened. He didn’t want her to feel stressed over this still.

 

“Thanks,” Betty smiled graciously, clutching the book and half wondering what he was going to say next.

 

“Anyways, now that we have that taken care of, I was going to ask you when would be a good time to meet again regarding the Blue and Bold?”

 

Betty smiled and shrugged, “Anytime.”

 

“Great. Well, Betty, I suppose I should let you go,” Jughead leaned back in his chair, “any riveting weekend plans, Ms. Cooper – aside from reading that wonderful book I gave you?” Jughead said humorously as he looked up at her as the fingertips of his left-hand brushed over the front of his hair absentmindedly, which caused a loose curl to fall beneath one eye.

 

“I –” Betty faltered.

 

“I’m kidding,” Jughead smiled.

 

“Oh,” Betty smiled back, “sorry. I don’t have any weekend plans, no.”

 

Jughead chuckled, “Yeah, there’s not really a whole lot to do in this tiny town, is there?”

 

Betty smiled and shook her head.

 

“Alright, Ms. Cooper, well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy your weekend, okay?”

 

Betty nodded and then walked towards the door, then, she paused and turned around, “Hey Jughead?”

 

Jughead looked up at her from his desk, blue eyes widening curiously.

 

Betty tilted her head to the side, “Thanks.”

 

“Anytime.” He said kindly, crossing his fingers together on the surface of his desk.

 

“Well, bye.” Betty turned around again and walked down the long hallway.

 

And with one final swish of her taut ponytail, she was gone.

 

Jughead sighed and settled his back against his seat. Satisfied that he had done right by her, he began thumbing through his papers and packing them up for the weekend.

 

He hoped, though, that Betty wasn’t returning to turmoil – the den of chaos that he had witnessed briefly but thoroughly the night before.

 

But what could _he do?_ After all, she was only his student.

…

 

 

 

 

 

When Betty got home, she was relieved to find the house empty. Because her parents were still trying to “figure things out” – her dad often stayed at the motel up the road and her mother, who was still co-owner and joint manager of _The Riverdale Register_ , had to attend the bi-monthly meetings in Greendale – divorce or not. And so, on occasions like this, Betty had the house all to herself.

 

And her sister, who had moved in with some “boyfriend” last month, was never really around much anyways.

 

Delighted that she wouldn’t have to hear _Fuck you_ and _God, Hal!_ for half the night, Betty threw her back-pack down, grabbed the book Jughead had given her and ran up to her room. When she was at the top of the stairs, she kicked off her white Keds, but left her light blue socks on.

 

As soon as she had settled into her bed, she ran her hand down the front cover of the blue book, smiled delightfully, and then cracked open its crisp binding. But no sooner had she began to read the very first sentence: _When you write, you lay out a line of words_ , when the phone rang suddenly, jarring her concentration and interrupting her almost escape into a world of unique alliterations.

 

Betty rolled her eyes and looked over at her wooden night stand. The room was silent for another minute. She sighed and pressed her back against her bed frame, pausing intermittently as she heard a wayward tree branch rap against her outside window.

 

_Tap-tap._

And then, silence.

 

But then it rang _again_.

 

Betty already knew who it was. Irritated (and wanting nothing more than to run out of the house with her hands pressed to her ears in a dramatic fashion), Betty grabbed the phone with some hesitation and pressed its center, “Yes, mother,” she said tersely.

 

“Knock that tone off, Elizabeth.” Her mother’s piercing voice demanded.

 

“Sorry,” Betty stuttered.

 

“I know that I won’t be home all weekend, but that doesn’t mean you can just sit around the house and be lazy.”

 

“I know, mom.” Betty said politely, running her fingertips against the top of her knees.

 

“Why don’t you go for a run, sweetie. The fresh air will do you good.”

 

“Ok,” Betty acceded. She was in no mood to argue and would simply tell her mother whatever she wanted to hear – run or not.

 

“Great. Listen Elizabeth, I left pizza money for you in the kitchen. I have to go, but my cellphone will be on silent if you need me.”

 

“Sounds great, mom,” Betty said indignantly. She could tell her mother was at some meeting or another and was no longer paying any attention to her responses anyways.

 

“Bye dear.” And with a click her mother’s voice was silenced.

 

Betty rolled her eyes. Then, she looked down at her bed and at the book Jughead had given her. She touched its binding once more. Suddenly, she felt incredibly lonely. If Jughead hadn’t given her that book, she would have ended up binge watching something mindless on tv anyways, staring wistfully into the darkness of the den, wishing above all else that she had a friend.

 

Betty sat there for another minute against the cushion of her bed, sulking. She wondered whether she should go for a run after all.

 

And suddenly, _an idea_.

 

She would go for a run alright –

 

_To the Bijou._

 

And when she came back, she decided, she would read the entire book that weekend and tell Jughead all about it come Monday morning.

 

The plan, she mused, was a good one. Betty smiled and hoped out of bed. Then, she walked over to her Ethan Allen armoire saying aloud, “But first, running clothes.”

…

 

 

 

 

 

Betty was nearly out of breath when she made it to the theater. Not that it mattered. If anything, everything was better this way. She would appease her mother, who _always_ did the laundry anyways and would be pleased no doubt to wash her daughter’s soiled athletic gear. And she’d have a bit of fun – being a little defiant because her mother didn’t like her “roaming about town after dark.” She could hear her mother’s words reverberating in her mind like a ghost that refused to leave:

 

_“All the bad people come out at night Elizabeth, you know that.”_

 

She had wanted to tell her mother that _not all_ miscreants needed to be shrouded in darkness to do their evil deeds. Some, she mused – like her own mother – did displayed their wickedness in broad daylight.

 

But that, she knew, would have certainly earned her a solid slap across the face.

 

No matter.

 

Betty sighed and walked up to the ticket booth, “One for _A Farewell to Arms_ , please.”

 

The attendant, an older looking teenager that she didn’t recognize, returned her debit card and ripped a light blue ticket from the black machine beside him and handed it to her jovially. “Enjoy the show.”

 

Betty wiped the light sweat from her brow and smiled as she took the ticket. “Thanks.”

…

 

 

 

 

 

The theater was empty, mostly.

 

Save for the elderly couple, Betty essentially had the place to herself – not that she minded, no – she was used to this, being alone. But sometimes – on nights like these – she wished that she had someone to at least _sit with_. There was a real loneliness in having to watch movies by one’s self week after week. It had gotten so unbearable as of late that she had cried in the theater last weekend, too. She wept quietly in the back where no one could see or hear her.

 

Betty sighed. _Oh well_ , she though, _it is what it is_. Resigned to her fate as a loner on a Friday night, she looked around and decided that it didn’t matter where she sat, really. So, she opted to sit in the back. She settled comfortably against a red velour chair and sat her soda to her right. Then, she pulled out her phone to silence it (and partly to see if anyone had called or texted – _they hadn’t_ ). Betty let out a mild sound of exasperation and clicked her phone off, placing it in her pocket once more.

 

But two minutes before the movie started, Betty thought she heard someone calling her name.

 

“ _Ms. Cooper?_ ”

 

At first, she thought she was hearing things because she was so tired – and, as an aside, no one – save for her elderly neighbor, called her _that._

 

But then she heard it again – except, _this time_ , her name was said with far less formality.

 

“Betty?”

 

She turned around and was surprised to see Jughead standing in the darkened aisle, holding several snacks and an oversized tub of popcorn.

 

 _Oh god._ Betty shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

 

“Hey, Betty,” Jughead encircled his arms around the popcorn, “I didn’t know you liked Hemingway too. Have you seen this one before?”

 

Betty nodded and looked up. She watched as Jughead looked around the theater awkwardly. She couldn’t help but stare. “You have a lot of snacks there,” she said suddenly, feeling her face turn red in the darkness.

 

Jughead smirked. “What’s a movie without snacks?” he said with a shrug, “Your welcome to join me, Ms. Cooper. I’m sure eating all of these by myself can’t be good for one’s cholesterol.”

 

Betty smiled in the darkness, “Okay.”

 

“Where do you want to sit?”

 

Betty shrugged her shoulders, “Here is good.”

 

Jughead smiled and walked towards her.

 

Betty giggled despite herself, “Do you need some help with that large popcorn?”

 

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Cooper,” Jughead handed her the popcorn and sat down. He sighed in relief, and Betty handed it back to him.

 

She watched curiously as Jughead opened a large package of M&Ms and then peanuts. Then, he proceeded to pour the contents all over the popcorn, spilling a few kernels and pieces of sticky popcorn on the ground.

 

“My favorite snack,” he said idly, turning to look at her. He smiled politely and then looked down at the elderly couple sitting in the front row. The man, who appeared to be in his eighties, was already falling asleep.

 

As the movie began to play, Jughead turned back to Betty, “Help yourself.”

 

“Okay,” Betty said softly. She grabbed a handful and Jughead turned to looked back at the screen.

 

Betty snuck the occasional peak at Jughead intermittently, watching him watch the movie, wishing above all else that he wasn’t so nice to look at. His expression was serious, mostly – he was focused intently on the movie as he watched the bright white screen, but every once in a while, something would happen, which amused him; it would light a spark in his face and cause his smile to widen in the darkness.

 

And although that only happened twice, each time it did, her heart fluttered, for it would cause his pearly white teeth to light up in the darkness. His smile was vivid, bright.

 

The second time he _sort of_ caught her glancing his way, but he was clearly unaware of her thoughts or internal reactions. Instead, he whispered, “I’m going to get more candy, would you like anything?”

 

“No, thanks,” Betty shook her head. But just as he handed her the popcorn and stood up, Betty, who’s soda was nearly empty, realized that her throat was parched, “Jughead, I mean, Mr. Jones, could –”

 

Jughead glanced down at her and waited.

 

“A water, please.”

 

Jughead smiled politely and nodded, “Be right back – oh and Ms. Cooper?”

 

Betty looked up at him.

 

“Don’t eat all of my snack.” And with that Jughead smirked and walked away.

 

Betty let out a raucous giggle, which caused the elderly woman in the front to turn around. Betty snorted and then went silent.

...

 

 

 

 

 

When Jughead returned about five minutes later, he handed her a water bottle, sat down in his seat and proceeded to open a rather large bag of gummy bears, the plastic cackling beneath the stillness of the theater as the movie droned on in the background.

 

Betty eyes widened.

 

“Gummy bears?” Jughead turned to look at her and held out the bag.

 

“Do you – I mean – well, where does all of it go?” Betty covered her mouth in the darkness, hardly believing those exact words had come out of _her mouth_.

 

Jughead laughed and the elderly woman, who clearly had a hearing aide of sorts, turned around and glared at Jughead. His eyes widened in response and he lowered his voice and turned back to Betty. “Well,” he said, “There is _this thing_ that I partake in every once in a while, – they called it exercise, but I only ever do it on a full moon, Ms. Cooper.”

 

Betty snorted and the woman in the front of the theater turned around, pressed one finger to her lips and said a short, obnoxious, “ _Shhh!_ ”

 

As if to mock her, Jughead pressed a finger to his lips, looked at Betty very seriously and nodded and they continued watching the movie as before. Then Betty handed the tub of popcorn back to him.

 

Towards the end of the movie, purely by chance, Betty reached over into the popcorn bucket to grab what was left of the remaining “snack.” Jughead, who’s eyes were transfixed to the screen and unaware that Betty’s hand was already reaching into the bucket did the same, causing their hands to brush accidentally.

 

“Er, sorry,” Betty pulled her hand out as their eyes met in the darkness.

 

Jughead raised his eyebrows and the bucket at her in response, so Betty took and placed it in her lap.

 

They sat like that – each with their own hands kept separately in their own laps – for the remainder of the movie.

..

 

 

 

 

 

When they were both outside of the theater and what was left of the snacks had been tossed, Betty averted her gaze from Jughead’s and shoved her hands into her pockets. A light breeze on her right side rippled through her hair and pushed her ponytail to the side.

 

“So, did you walk all the way here?” Jughead inquired politely. He’d noticed her athletic clothing when they stepped out of the theater, an aberration from her normal attire, and wondered idly if she was into sports.

 

“What?” Betty turned to face him, “Oh no, I didn’t. I mean, I ran here.”

 

“Ah.” Jughead said, “that must have been some run.”

 

“I guess,” Betty said uncomfortably, not knowing what to say or do because she was still thinking about how she had kissed him the night before. “I mean, I run sometimes. I don’t know, it’s something to do.”

 

Jughead looked around at the darkened street in front of the theater, “Well, if you aren’t planning on running home,” he said wryly, “ _And_ if you don’t mind the company, I’ll walk you home if you like. It’s gotten dark out and I would feel better knowing you weren’t wandering around in the darkness alone at this hour.”

 

“You sound like my mother.” Betty said without thinking, “Nothing ever happens here though. Not in this town.”

 

“Oh.” Jughead said, slightly taken aback. In response, he raised his eyebrows and made a _you don’t say kind_ of face.

 

“I’m sorry.” Betty said almost immediately, brushing her hand over her eyes and hair. I must be really tired tonight.”

 

“Well, he said amusedly, “I’m not your mother, I’m sure, but I am concerned about you being out alone this late all the same,” he conceded, his voice sounding a bit genteel, but kind all the same.

 

Betty shrugged, “You can walk me home. It’s kind of a long walk though.”

 

“That’s fine.” Jughead said dryly, adjusting his beanie. Then he looked up and smiled, adding for good measure, “It will give me a chance to burn off all the calories I just ingested.”

 

Betty grinned.

…

 

 

 

 

 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, passing the short expanse of downtown in no time at all, leaves rusting beneath their feet. Within minutes, they were already at the edge of Riverdale’s so called urban sprawl – except, the houses _here_ were far nicer than those in the surrounding communities. Most of the houses were well-maintained – hedges neatly trimmed, lawns sort of matching their neighbors, saved for a few variations in the floral selections in the front of each home.

 

After another minute, Jughead looked over at Betty curiously. She appeared to be lost in thought.

 

Sensing his eyes on her, Betty straightened her back and dug her hands deeper into her jackets pink lycra pockets. Then, she mustered up a bit of courage and decided to ask him something again, (never mind the fact that her question was a bit intrusive, probably). She could feel her shoulders tense as she looked over at him, fists clenched by her side, “Hey, Jughead,” Betty said curiously, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

 

“Shoot,” Jughead said kindly, glancing over at her once as they both continued walking up the sidewalk on a mild incline.

 

Betty didn’t look him in the eyes at first. Instead, she played with her ponytail and said, “I – what I mean to say is, _if_ your only twenty-two, _then_ –” Betty paused awkwardly, unsure of whether or not she should continue.

 

But Jughead, who possessed a bit of foresight and could read people easily (an unfortunate trait he had garnered from having to grow up far too quickly), already knew where her question was headed.

 

So, in response, he cleared his throat and finished her sentence easily.

 

“How am I _a teacher?_ ” He said calmly, glancing over at her, watching her green eyes widen in response. Then, he added rather pointedly, “Is that what you wanted to ask?”

 

“I, yeah,” Betty said awkwardly, “Sorry.”

 

“There’s no need to apologize, Betty,” Jughead said kindly, pausing for a moment as they continued walking onwards, “Well,” he said gently, unsure of how to begin, “I was emancipated _at sixteen_ and subsequently finished my High School Diploma around that same time, and then – come fall, I started college.”

 

Startled by this revelation, Betty turned to look at him and stopped in her tracks. “Wait, so you mean, you actually _started_ college at _sixteen_?” She said, eyes widening as he looked over at her.

 

“That I did,” Jughead said unequivocally. He paused momentarily, unsure of what else to say. What he had said was tangential enough and his reply, oblique – _kind of._ But for now, he decided, what he’d said was enough. He felt like it let her know a little about him without crossing over any student-teacher boundaries. 

 

(Although, he mused, _maybe_ walking her home was crossing said boundary; however, he wasn’t going to worry about it for now. At least, not tonight anyways).

 

They began walking again before Betty decided to ask him one more question, “Jughead, I – never mind, sorry.”

 

“You say that a lot, Ms. Cooper.” Jughead furrowed his brow and smiled at her, shoving his right hand in his coat pocket, “There’s no need to be sorry for asking me a question,” he said, adding with emphasis, “ _really_.”

 

“It’s just,” Betty looked down at the pavement at they walked onwards, not wanting to look him in the eye, “I didn’t want you to think I was being nosey,” she said honestly, clearing her throat; she could feel him looking over at her, so she continued averting her gaze.

 

“You’re not,” He said calmly, adding, “If I didn’t want you to know that about me, I wouldn’t have answered your question.”

 

Betty smiled and looked over at him. Then, she watched as Jughead looked at the houses up the hill. He had already spotted her house up ahead. But _of course_ he recognized it, Betty thought to herself; she felt embarrassed all over again.

 

“Is that one yours?” Jughead pointed, nodding in the direction of the two-story home about ten feet from the two of them.

 

“That’s the one.” Betty sighed as they both walked towards it. They both stopped in front of the white fence, which framed the house and a large oak tree beside it. There was an imperceptible pause shared between them as Betty turned aside to face him, the tree branches behind her swaying languidly as she did so.

 

“Well, Ms. Cooper, this is where I bid you goodnight,” Jughead said humorously, shoving his hands in his coat pocket.

 

“Yeah, I guess so.” Betty looked down at the ground and then back up at Jughead, who was about to turn around and, she assumed, and head back in the direction that they walked in. “Hey, Jughead?”

 

“Hmm?” Jughead turned around and waited.

 

“Do you,” Betty scratched her neck and averted her gaze for a moment, “I mean, what I meant to say is, would you like some pie?”

 

“Pie?” Jughead inquired, a slow but sure smile spreading across his face.

 

“Yes, I mean – my parents aren’t – .” Betty fumbled, toying with the drawstring on her jacket, “That’s not what I meant to say, sorry. What I meant was, my mother left this gourmet lemon crème pie in the fridge and I wondered if you would like to have a slice, that’s all.”

 

Her invitation was, for lack of a better word, tempting.

 

(The pie _of course_ ).

 

But all at once, Jughead remembered _the kiss_. He thought about how best to handle the situation and more importantly, given the recent stress she was experiencing, how best to respond to _her_. But despite that, he didn’t want Betty to think that he didn’t like her – platonically, of course, and so he thought very carefully about what he should say – or not say – next. “You know what,” He said kindly, “I would kill for a slice of pie, Ms. Cooper, but as it stands I just ate my weight in candy and red dye number 42 – or whatever that chemical poison is they use in every candy. So,” He said gently, “I must politely decline, but – _next time?_ ” He said, smiling and pressing his lips together good-humoredly.

 

“Okay,” Betty smiled back, “Well, I’ll be seeing you – at school, I mean. Oh, and thanks for walking me home.”

 

“Don’t mention it.” Jughead said with a soft wave.

 

And with that, Betty watched as he began walking down the sidewalk adjacent to her house. Then, Betty turned and walked up to the steps of her house and slipped inside. When she was certain he was gone, and the door was shut fastidiously, locked firmly clicked, Betty put her head and back to the oak door and pretended to bang her head against it.

 

‘Pie?” She said aloud, _what were you thinking, Betty?_

Embarrassed again, Betty shook off the feeling and headed upstairs to her bedroom.

…

 

 

 

 

 

And later, after Betty had showered, changed into her pajamas and climbed into her bed, she reached for the book that Mr. Jones had leant her for the second time that evening.

 

She paused and look down at the book, thinking.

 

And just like that, she remembered.

 

As she turned the first page, she recalled, suddenly, what he had said to her beneath the shade of the old oak tree just outside her quiet house, the stillness of the night all around them.

 

Betty sighed and shut her eyes, smiling just a little. Then, when she opened them again she looked down at the novel in her hands. She thought of Jughead and felt strangely happy. It was as if he was lying right beside her in that instant, whispering softly against her ear.

 

His words, soft and true, echoed through her mind: _next time._

__

To be continued.

 

 

**_Author's Note: The book that Jughead leant Betty was 'The Writing Life' by Annie Dillard, all rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended._ **

 

**_I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, comments are appreciated. -Starry <3_ **


	3. fissures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions mount. Fissures form. 
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> And Betty, young and naïve, perhaps, dreams of mounting something else.  
> Or, rather, someone.

_“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”_

 

**\- F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise**

 

 

__

On Sunday evening, Betty’s eyes grew heavy as she tried – but failed – to finish the last two chapters of the book that Jughead had given her.

 

 _Just a little more, Betty_ , she thought to herself as her head fell by the wayside and she shut her eyes. She was asleep within seconds.

 

And just like that, the young woman, whose eagerness to please her teacher had only grown with their chance encounter – was fast asleep, waking for no one as the blue novel slid downwards and out of her hand, coming to a soft standstill next to her silken pajamas. And as she slept, her hands curled around her pillow like it was something both precious and soft as the last light of the dying day vanished from the window behind her back.

 

Her mouth opened softly as she dreamed of a place of love and comfort, a place where she mattered.

 

For if dreams offered one little solace from a world of death, decay, and an impending parental divorce, what then, was their purpose?

 

But Betty would have that place, someday. But it wouldn’t be in the form of a physical locale – it would, instead, have long, lithe arms and a smile as bright as a crescent moon.

...

 

 

 

 

 

Betty was awakened abruptly to the sound of the front door slamming underfoot; the red oak door hit the doorframe, which shook the floor and subsequently rattled her bedframe from underneath her. She heard the sound of hard heels travel down the expansive hallway and into the kitchen, clapping against the wooden floor as they went, their movement evidenced by a hardy _clickety-clack_. Betty listened harder then, keenly aware of what was about to transpire when her mother discovered her porcelain paradise in disarray. There was a pregnant pause before she heard a loud cuss word yelled to no one, and then –

 

With nowhere to run, Betty grasped onto the bedsheets beneath her legs and braced for what was about to happen. As her mother ascended the staircase, Betty breathed heavily, wondering what, if anything she should say: _Sorry, mom. I fell asleep and didn’t have time to clean up the kitchen_.

 

And, a desperate plea: _please don’t hit me_.

 

Betty got out of bed and stood up as the metal door handle clicked open.

 

Her mother, who looked a little worse for wear, came toward her like a bona fide huntsman, confronting its pray for a single second before striking it dead.

 

“ _Elizabeth Cooper!_ ” He mother yelled, finger extended outwards, her chartreuse eyes lethal and leering, “What the hell did I tell you about leaving a mess in _this house_?”

 

“I-” Betty’s hands curled into a tight fist in defense, “I fell asleep,” she whispered in admission, letting go of the balled fist and slumping over in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

 

The next action – though painful – was over in a blink. Betty didn’t even feel the sharp sting against her cheek until it had already happened – it was as if the tight slap against her face seemed to transpire in slow motion – registering to her as if it was a dream, almost, and she was the onlooker, watching it happen to someone else.

 

“I’m sick of this shit, Betty,” her mother yelled as her hand resumed its taught position by her side, eyes fierce, piercing, “Learn to clean up after yourself, or next the time this happens, I’ll take away more than just your car, _got it?_ ” Alice said menacingly, straightening up in an instant and breathing out a sigh of relief as if - ironically - she was the one that had been wronged here.

 

Betty’s breathing stilled as she braced for impact, again – only _this time_ said impact took the form of another expletive or two.

 

“Goddammit, _Elizabeth_ , I don’t need this shit _right now_ ,” Alice fumed, straightening her silken blouse, adding, “I don’t need to be gone all weekend, worried about you making a mess in _my fucking house_ – _do you hear me!?_ ”

 

Her mother didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, she turned around and slammed Betty’s bedroom door shut. With her adrenaline pumping and her fear – both palpable and exalted to a fetish point – Betty decided that she needed to get out of that house as fast as humanly possible.

 

Never mind that it was only 6:00 am.

 

 

 

 

 

…

She was dressed and out the door in ten minutes.

 

But in her haste, Betty had failed to notice the small gash beneath her cheekbone; it began to bleed, gushing small, crimson dots, which slid down like droplets along the curve of her pinkened cheek as she sped to school. She was so distraught that she disregarded two neighborhoods stop signs because the streets were empty and most, if not everyone, was _still_ asleep.

 

Somehow, during their one-sided altercation, the princess-cut diamond in Ms. Cooper’s ring had slid down and around her finger, striking – _and breaking_ Betty’s delicate skin at precisely the same time Alice’s palm struck her daughter’s unmarred face.

…

Betty only noticed the subsequent drops of blood when she pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the Blue and Gold office – an old classroom relegated for extracurriculars, including the school newspaper and the bi-monthly chess club meetings. Just as she was about to go inside the school, the sight of blood had caught her eye in the rearview mirror, which caused her to panic; in response, she grabbed the _Kleenex To-Go!_ from her glove compartment, blotting up the red as she stopped crying for a moment. She breathed in a few tears, sighing as she moved a few stray hairs back into place, smoothing them behind her ponytail.

 

 _“Steady breaths, Betty,”_ she whispered to herself before she began to cry again.

…

 

 

 

 

 

Jughead, who had pulled up to the school around the same time as Betty, had parked at the opposite end of the parking lot. He lingered in his car a little longer, listening to NPR and yawning as he did so, missing, albeit barely, the sight of the crying blonde running into the school as the yellow light of dawn lit up the rooftops of the cars overhead.

 

He was still sleepy as he gathered his papers and slung his leather bag over his shoulder, wondering how his movie buddy had fared for the remainder of the weekend.

 

He was hopeful, _at least_ , that with her parents gone, Betty had gotten to enjoy a few quiet moments to herself. He thought of her laughing at him beneath the lights of the old, dilapidated theater; her quiet, affable presence had helped him feel a little less alone. And frankly, he thought, it was nice to not have to watch the movie solo, never mind that he had already seen the same movie twice before.

 

Jughead smiled and locked his car door. Then, he looked up at the sky, covering his blue eyes almost immediately with his hands as the sun cracked through the pinkish-purple lines on the horizon. The morning was glorious, giving light to all things previously concealed by the darkness before dawn. The expanse of yellow expanding above him revealed shadows underfoot as he trudged onwards, the leaves of the bushes next to the school shook as he brushed past them, walking briskly, eagerness evidenced by his sure-footed steps and smile.

 

Jughead, a dreamer and a bit of a romantic, meditated on the appearance his own shadow as he opened the door to the school and stepped inside the building. He had a singular, poetic thought – one which he decided he would add to his novel _later._

 

For wherever there was sunlight, there was indeed, an accompanying shadow. It was true for all things, all the time – even people.

 

Jughead smiled to himself, still lost in his own thoughts as he rounded the corner near the front entrance of the school.

...

But one shadow in particular – the silhouette of a crying young woman concealed behind a dark green door with a glass screen, was about to be uncovered.

 

And in exposing said darkness, a piece of light would fill its void, breaking down an all-important wall, which Jughead – _a professional_ – had put up to ensure that he remained _thus_.

 

But like every wall, even the most enduring and true – all walls were susceptible to fissures, the likes of which would destroy the very foundation of said wall, which eventually – like Joshua’s strange, but determined march around Jericho – gave way to the wall being destroyed en totem by time, or otherwise.

 

All it took was a single _crack_.

...

 

 

 

 

 

As Jughead walked past the gymnasium, he waved politely at the school janitor, lingering for a moment to make idle chit-chat; he joked about ‘the inevitable fray that would descend upon the school in an hours’ time,’ which made the janitor chuckle. The janitor, in turn, grinned heartily at Jughead, nodding his head in agreement as he continued sweeping the vinyl flooring.

 

Meanwhile, Jughead yawned at he went into the teachers’ lounge and made himself a very large cup of coffee. Then, with the plastic lid fastened tightly against the Styrofoam, Jughead closed the door to the teachers lounge and headed towards the Blue and Gold classroom, which was normally empty during this time of day.

 

But no sooner had he turned the doorknob to the spacious room, when he heard noise coming from the inside. It sounded almost like crying. Concerned, he pressed the door open, saying, ‘Hello? Anyone in there?” waiting, albeit fleetingly, for any sort of response.

 

When no one responded, Jughead proceeded to push the door open completely, not expecting to find much of anything – except, perhaps, a student.

 

But after the door creaked open, he caught a glimpse of the back of a pastel sweater near of the back of the classroom. He recognized the clothing almost immediately.

 

“Ms. Cooper?” Jughead said easily, taking a sip of coffee and placing it atop the desk nearest to him, “Hey, is that you back there? You’re here _really early_ , I—”

 

But then, he noticed it: her sad, limp demeanor, her dejected body language. He wondered immediately what was wrong. He watched as Betty angled her head ever so slightly in his direction, wiping something from her cheeks with the sleeve of her pastel sweater.

 

“Betty?” Jughead inquired softly, concern evidenced by his tone of voice, “Hey, is everything okay?”

 

He paused for a moment, considering how best to proceed. He decided to take a gentler approach, walking up to her cautiously, his concern apparent from his own expression as he watched her bury her face against the crook in her thighs, as if to conceal it from him. He could hear Betty suck in a breath as he placed his hand calmly against her shoulder.

 

“Betty?” he said kindly.

 

After some hesitation, Betty pulled her face from her knees.

 

And that when he saw it: a small, but deep gash in the midpoint of her cheek, directly beneath her cheekbone.

 

Shocked by this disturbing sight – evidence of what he only assumed was abuse from one ( _or_ both) of her own parents – caused whatever invisible force that was keeping him from touching her to vanish in the same instant.

 

“ _Betty_.” Jughead bent down and placed one hand against her cheek, the palm of his other hand cradling the side of her face. The fingertips of each hand pressed against the skin of her face as if she was made of delicate porcelain.

 

But Betty, who was on the verge of losing it, looked up at Jughead with bleary eyes, a troubled expression evident on her face as her pink lips parted and a single tear spilled down her cheek. She watched him as he studied the gash on her face with a soft, worried expression, fingertips tracing her skin at the edge of her jaw. Soon, she felt the back of his hand caress her skin, watching in bewilderment as his brow furrowed and his forehead creased; the closeness of it all – his touches, his breath hot on her face – was almost _too much_ and yet, not enough in the same instance. Her lips parted as she felt him _really_ look at her; she went limp, feeling vulnerable as he touched her, his hands still caressing her face, holding it still beside his own.

 

Then, she looked at him, really and truly looked _at him_ – her eyes, her look, yielding to him completely as if she was pleading with him for something. She swallowed as her eyes said what her mouth could not: _hold me._

 

Her bottom lip quivered as she stood up from the desk. She pushed her arms through his plaid shirt and wrapped her arms tightly around Jughead’s midsection as she began sobbing.

 

And Jughead, who didn’t know what to do as _the teacher_ , but certainly wasn’t going to allow _his student_ to be left alone in such a despondent state, did the only thing he could do in a situation like this.

 

He wrapped his arms around her and let her cry.

…

 

 

 

 

 

“This may sting,” Jughead said as he pressed the dampened piece of cotton to Betty’s cheek.

 

But Betty was focused so intently on Jughead’s facial features, tracing an invisible big dipper with her eyes where his moles were situated on the right-hand side of his cheek, that she didn’t notice the inevitable sting of the alcohol until the raw, cotton edge of the gauze brushed against the area.

 

_Zing!_

 

“Ouch!” In reaction to the sharp sting of pain, Betty’s hand immediately shot to his; it was a futile attempt the feel some relief from the pain, but she then realized that the gauze – and him doctoring her wounds to avoid an infection – was necessary. She allowed the tips of her fingers to brush over the back of his hand at first, but then removed them just as quickly.

 

“Are you okay?” Jughead released the pressure on her cheeks and looked down at her face. She seemed calmer now, sort of. After twenty minutes of crying she had explained in tears, face buried against his chest that her mother had smacked her hard – and _for what_ , Jughead thought angrily as he held her – all because she hadn’t cleaned the dishes. _Goddamn._ He was disgusted but wasn’t going to tell her as much; there was no need to state the obvious here. No, not yet, anyways. They had a different dilemma on the horizon.

 

As her teacher, Jughead knew he had an obligation to report such abuse – and that’s exactly what this was. It was a non-delegable duty that he didn’t _want_ to do per se.

 

Except, of course, he _had_ to.

 

In response to his question, Betty half nodded and bit her lower lip, watching Jughead’s hands and they rummaged around the first aid kit on the couch. She decided she liked his hands. He had long, marvelous fingers that felt soft against her skin. And as she looked on curiously, watching Jughead’s eyes carefully unwrap the small bandage and peel it from its sheet of plastic. She sighed as he brought the piece of plastic up to her cheek, lips parted with want as she watched him as he covered her cut with the bandage carefully. He pressed the bandage there, holding it – and her – softly.

 

After another second, he pulled his hands away from her face.

 

Betty hunched her shoulders, missing his touch and hands against her face already.

 

“Betty.” Jughead placed one hand on her knee, sighing as he began speaking again, “Listen. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but as your teacher, I’m unfortunately liable to report this.”

 

Frightened by the ramifications of what this _could mean_ – for her _and_ for her family – Betty began to cry silently as she looked up at Jughead’s eyes. Embarrassed, she tore her gaze from his and tried to cover her face with her hands when she felt – suddenly – the feeling of another hand upon hers.

 

 _His_ hand.

 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” He said, holding her hand against her knee.

 

“It’s not,” Betty said between cries, “You don’t understand.”

 

“What do you mean?” He entreated, his thumb skimming over the top part of her hand.

 

“It just _won’t_.” Betty shook her head, “Please, don’t say anything. I’m begging you, please, Mr. Jones. I start school in the fall and after that I’m free.”

 

Jughead sighed, not wanting to upset her further he said quickly, averting her attention to a less upsetting topic, “Where are you going to school?”

 

“What?” Betty stopped crying and looked up at him. “Oh,” she quickly wiped the tears from her face and said, “Nowhere far. I’m going to the state school in Greendale.”

 

A slow, sure smile spread across Jughead’s face. “That’s where I’m teaching in the fall,” he said kindly, lips pressed together as a smile appeared in the corner of his mouth.

 

“Really?” Betty smiled in surprise. She couldn’t believe her luck. _Maybe_ , someday –

 

Her almost thought was interrupted by what Jughead said next.

 

“Really. Listen, Betty, _I know_ you’ve had a rough morning, so we don’t need to talk about this right now, okay?” Jughead said firmly, still holding her hand in his.

 

“But –” Betty was still worried. “I don’t want to lose my parents support for college and I don’t want to be taken away by social services.”

 

“Hey,” Jughead held her hand tighter, pressing his hand against her knee, “That doesn’t mean that’s going to happen, okay? Let’s wait and talk about this when you feel better, how does that sound?”

 

Betty nodded and managed a smile.

 

Jughead let go of her hand and turned around. Betty watched him curiously as he pulled a pen and paper from his briefcase. “I’m going to give you my number and email,” he said, scribbling down the information on a torn sheet of paper, “But,” he added humorously, “You will probably get ahold of me quicker by email. _Here_.”

 

Jughead handed her the paper and Betty, who was feeling butterflies in her stomach by this time for a very different reason than before, looked up at him curiously.

 

“If anything happens again, please don’t hesitate to contact me. _Okay?_ ”

 

Betty smiled in relief. “Okay.” She watched as Jughead got up and collected his things.

 

“Well,” Jughead flicked his nose playfully, “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Cooper, I have several riveting papers to grade. Will you be okay in the interim?”

 

Betty nodded.

 

“Until again. See you in class, Betty.”

…

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Jones was finally home for the evening.

 

As soon as he stepped foot inside his dwelling, Jughead set his leather shoulder bag down in the hallway and shimmied out of his jacket, which he slung over the wooden coat rack to the right of the door. He paused intermittently, looking down at the stack of papers packed neatly inside the center of his satchel, their crisp white edges just begging to be written upon, his red ink pen tucked perfectly beside them. Jughead was torn; he was trying to decide whether he should grade them now _or later_ (or not at all). Frankly, grading, for the time being, was the last thing on his mind.

 

His head felt foggy; tonight, he was preoccupied with other things, other people. But there was one person in particular – a young, bright female that he couldn’t shake from his thoughts.

 

He was having a hard time thinking about anything other than what had happened that morning in the early hours of dawn. He was still imagining it – replaying the thoughts of Betty crying in the corner of the Blue and Gold in his head over and over again. He imagined her standing in front of her mother, scared and bleeding in the aftermath, the thought of which made him feel ill.

 

He had thought about her all day, long after she’d vanished from view. After the alarming encounter that he’d had with her that morning, he had tried to do right by her yet again the following afternoon. Because he was so concerned about what had transpired, he had offered her a hand-written teacher’s note after his class ended. He told her to take it if she felt like she ‘needed a break from her classes,’ or, alternatively, if she ‘needed to talk to someone’ – to anyone – even if it wasn’t _him_.

 

In response, Betty had said, _no, she didn’t_. But –

 

He didn’t believe her _because_ , unfortunately, he’d _been there_. He knew the situation all too well, having once been in a similar situation himself. He remembered what it was like to toughen oneself up, to forget. He also knew, based on his own experiences, that she was coping in the best way that she knew how, probably. At least, he assumed that she was – though, no one really knows how to cope with any form of abuse, especially when its directed specifically _at you,_ day after day after day.

 

There would always be a part of him that still remembered that, clearly.

 

 _And_ , despite her pleas to the contrary – that she didn’t need the note – he wrote her one anyways, telling her to keep it in her backpack all the same.

 

But he was still worried about _her_.

 

After all, aside from reporting the incident to one of the higher ups, what, if anything, could he _really do?_

 

Jughead sighed. He lingered in the hallway just a little while longer, thinking about the day. It had been a while since he felt this helpless and he hated it.

 

But, suddenly, a squeak filled the still air in his place, interrupting whatever his previous thought was, albeit temporarily.

 

His movements, though not particularly noisy, must have been loud enough to rouse the newest member of his household from her slumber. Soon, his baby kitten began crying furiously from the living room. He heard Tinsel straightaway, her entreaties in the form of high-pitched squeaks meant only one thing: feed me.

 

But before checking on her, he caught sight of himself in the mirror in the hallway – his hair looked wild and unkempt despite the gray cap covering more than half of it. He pulled his hat off and threw it on top of his satchel where it landed for a split second before sliding down the strap.

 

Jughead sighed. “Coming Tinsey,” he said aloud as he ran one hand through his wavy hair.

 

Save for the lamp in the corner, which he had left on purposefully for Tinsel’s comfort, the other end of the living room had already grown dark as the last light of day vanished from behind the blinds.

 

Tinsel’s cries had grown desperate by the time Jughead reached the threshold of the living room – her little paw’s moving back and forth fervently across the lining of her makeshift bed with a soft, heating pad beneath her paws.

 

“Hey, little one,” Jughead said on bended knee as he knelt down and scooped her up, “Are you hungry, Tinsey?”

 

Tinsel, who appeared distraught at this point, barely looked at Jughead as she opened her mouth wide and squeaked out a series of helpless cries.

 

“Let’s get you fed, shall we?” He said, cradling her close, “This is your last week on the bottle, yay us,” he added playfully as he looked down at her tiny body, smoothing the fur over her head.

…

After Jughead had warmed the contents of Tinsel’s formula and it had effectively cooled for another minute on his kitchen counter, Jughead cradled Tinsel against his arm and opened her mouth gently with the tip of his finger, saying, “Come on, little one, Professor Jughead has papers to grade, books to write – you know, the usual.”

 

Tinsel cried once before acclimating and then, he grabbed the bottle from the counter and slipped the nipple into her mouth at a forty-five-degree angle, saying, “Come on, Tinsey.” After a second passed, Tinsel got the hang of it and began sucking on the nipple enthusiastically. Jughead breathed a sigh of relief and felt her sink into him, relaxing as she sucked on the bottle.

…

 

 

 

 

 

...

After Tinsel had been fed, Jughead began brewing a small pot of coffee, still slightly annoyed with himself that he still hadn’t been able to kick the habit of drinking the stuff at night. Once that was done, he poured himself a cup and set the mug on his kitchen table and went over to grab his bag from beside the front door. Then, after a large stack of papers was in front of him, he took a giant swig of coffee and settled in, prepared to grade for a few hours before taking a break from his labors.

...

That break came sooner rather than later.

 

About thirty minutes into grading, Jughead heard a swift knock at his front door. He grinned and got up from the kitchen table to answer it.

 

He was still smiling as he walked back to his front door, answering it without a moment’s hesitation.

 

“You’re early.” Jughead said playfully, a knowing grin plastered on his face.

 

“Excuse me,” Trey Clayton said, pausing intermittently before adding humorously, a wide smile all over his face, “Is uh, is Professor Jones _here_?” Trey began to snicker uncontrollably.

 

“Shut-up.” Jughead grinned and opened his door.

 

Trey slipped past him and turned around, “So, how’s the substitute teaching job?” He said, watching as Jughead shut the door behind them.

 

“It’s fine,” Jughead said, “I mean, it’s more than fine, _except_ –” Jughead paused. He was unsure of whether to bring the incident up with his friend that was still bothering him. _Maybe_ , he figured, if he left out most of the details and said very little.

 

“Hey, you okay, man? You look really tired today.” Trey stopped smiling.

 

“What?” Jughead hadn’t realized he was staring into space. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” But his expression, he was sure, looked a bit grim.

 

“You sure, man?” Trey looked at his friend curiously. He wondered what, if anything, was the matter. He was used to Jughead looking tired because he’d known him for so long and knew of his penchant for late nights at Pop’s spent writing. But _this_ – well, this was something else. He was almost certain of it, but he didn’t want to pry. Not yet, anyways.

 

“I – there was an incident at the high school today.”

 

Trey raised his eyebrows, “Oh?”

 

“Yeah, involving one of my students. I’m not sure how much I can say, but it’s got me kind of concerned, that’s all.”

 

“Do you want to talk, man? Because we can skip the run.” Trey leaned against the wall in the hallway and crossed his arms.

 

Jughead shook his head. “No,” he paused, running his hands through his hair, “I think a run is exactly what I need tonight – to clear my head.”

 

“You’re sure?” Trey’s expression was a mix of puzzled bewilderment. It had been a while since he’d seen his friend like this and it worried him.

 

Jughead nodded as he uncrossed his arms. “Let me just go get changed.”

 

“Alright man, I’ll be waiting. Say, where’s Tinsel?”

 

“Asleep.” Jughead turned around and pointed at Trey as he walked towards his bedroom, “Do not wake her up.”

 

Trey pretended to be offended by placing his hand on his chest and sighing loudly. It was dramatic gesture done purely for his own amusement which made Jughead smile. He shook his head at his friends failed efforts at pantomime before disappearing into his room.

…

 

 

 

 

 

Despite it being May already, the night air was cold and dry.

 

Ten minutes into their run, Trey looked over at Jughead. “Hey, so what was that about earlier Jughead? The look on your face kind of freaked me out,” Trey said, panting as they continued jogging into the night, the leaves on the bushes beside them rustling in the wind as they ran past them.

 

“It’s my student,” Jughead panted, “Her name is Betty. I’m just concerned about her, that’s all.”

 

“What’s up man?” Trey said, turning towards him as they ran.

 

“I can’t say too much, but let’s just say that I don’t think her parents are very…exemplary in the parenting department, if you catch my drift.”

 

“Well, who are they?” Trey ran ahead of Jughead, stopped at the corner of the sidewalk up ahead and turned around. His breath was heavy against the night air as he placed his hands behind his head and expelled several heavy breaths, his chest heaving and shirt pounding.

 

“The Coopers.” Jughead stopped running and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Do you know them?”

 

“ _The Coopers_ ,” Trey said, emphasizing the name, “ _As in_ Alice and Hal Cooper?”

 

Jughead put his hands on his hips and paused as a gust of wind blew over the top of his head. “Possibly. I don’t know their first names.”

 

“Yeah, I know them,” Trey said. He looked down and ran his hand over his head awkwardly. He looked up at Jughead, lips pursed together awkwardly.

 

“What?” Jughead furrowed his brow. He wondered what Trey would say next.

 

“I know Polly Cooper,” Trey said. “And my brother Chuck is in the same grade as their other daughter, I think.”

 

“Betty?” Jughead’s eyes widened.

 

“Betty.” Trey repeated the name as if he was trying to jog his memory with it, “Yeah, I think so. Anyways, Jug, you didn’t hear this from me man, got it?”

 

“You have my word. I’m listening.” Jughead bent one knee and rested his hand against it.

 

“They’re terrible people, man. I mean, Polly never said much to me, but she didn’t need to. From what I gathered, her parents are absolute jerks. One thing she did mention, though – _I think_ it was during her junior year, maybe, was that her mother was a bit of a control freak and had a nasty temper. I don’t remember all the details, but it was bad, man. Anyways, between that and seeing her upset in the hallways before class would start – sometimes – I gathered that things weren’t so copasetic on the home front.”

 

Jughead was silent as he listened to Trey. Based upon his encounter with Betty that morning, he was not the least bit surprised. He wondered if he should say something to Trey – ask for his advice in confidence, of course. _Maybe._ But then he decided against it because he still hadn’t talked to Betty yet and he wanted to give her ample time to recover from what had transpired. He sighed and looked up at Trey.

 

“Jug?” Trey cocked his head, “What’s up man? I haven’t seen you like this in a while…not _since_ –”

 

Afraid of where the conversation might go – into the past, that darkness he swore he’d left behind – Jughead was quick to cut him off. “I know. Hey, thanks for telling me that,” he conceded. “ _And_ can we run back to my place now? I’m suddenly feeling the weight of this run…and not just in my lower knees.” Jughead winced as Trey watched him. Then, a slow smile spread across hit face.

 

“You’re on.” Trey smiled. “I’ll beat your lanky ass, any day.”

 

Jughead smirked as Trey ran past him towards the other end of the block. Then, he turned on his heels and chased after him, a few leaves crunched under the heel of his tennis shoe.

…

 

 

 

 

 

Later that night, long after Trey had gone home, and his home had been put into order, Jughead stared solemnly into the dim light of his bedroom. His laptop, though open directly in front of him, remained untouched, its blue light emitting a glow against the top of his comforter.

 

He was sitting there, thinking – meditating on love among other things – was it so outrageous to think, he wondered, that part of love entailed more than _just_ romance? Perhaps love, then, was something else entirely – an unshakable devotion to a person or thing, no matter its current state.

 

He looked down at Tinsel, who stood up in his lap, yawned, and proceeded to pounce on his chest. She cried loudly, her soft entreaties for physical affection only ending once he gave her exactly that. He looked down at her, smiled and ran his fingers down her fur, her delicate body went limp in an instant at the stroke of his fingers against her soft fur. He thought of Tinsel, then, and imagined what love would be to her. A safe haven, perhaps?

 

But love – at least for him – meant something else. Something _more._

 

Love _as_ comfort. Jughead sighed, knowing all too well what it felt like to have _neither_. Then, he picked up his laptop and began to type.

 

_A bereft boy and his slighted student_

_find solace in each other._

 

Jughead stopped. He glanced down at Tinsel, his black hair spilling down his face, temporarily obstructing his vision. He glanced at her tiny face, the two normally round eyes were shut tightly – two black slits situated against a wet nose and bed of soft fur.

 

“I’ll keep you safe, Tinsey.” Jughead pressed the pads of his fingers to Tinsel’s midsection, dragging them, albeit barely, against her silky fur. He let out one of those overwhelming sighs that only come from thinking about something serious right before bedtime. But it wasn’t a bad sigh by any means. It was a contemplative emission – an emission as a release – the quiet dispelling of all emotions in the form of soft, languid breaths.

 

He pulled his line of vision upwards, situated his elbows against the keyboard and began to type.

...

 

 

 

 

 

When Betty wasn’t in class the next day, Jughead grew concerned that something worse had transpired. He fiddled with his hat and drummed the inside of his desk nervously; he was trying – but failing – to think of anything other than what _might_ have happened to her.

 

As he glanced passively at the students, who were working on solo assignments, he thought _only_ of her – wondering where she was, whom she was with, and if – he hoped – she was okay.

 

But upon checking his email, any fears he had – those pesky little _what-if’s_ at the forefront of his mind – were put to rest. Betty, as she explained in her email, had taken advantage of the note he had written her after all and said that she was in the school counselor’s office. She went on to say that she wanted to meet with him after school.

 

Relieved, Jughead relaxed his tense shoulders and settled his back against his chair.

 

But then, upon further inspection, he read the last line of her email:

__ 

**Would it be possible for you to meet at the Riverdale park downtown after school? I don’t want to talk about this at school.**

**Betty.**

**__**

Jughead furrowed his brow and looked over at the clock. He had a growing stack of papers in his briefcase, which – once the students were finished with their assignment for today – was only going to grow exponentially.

_The many_ _travails of teaching_ , he thought as he glanced down at his desk. He resolved to talk to Betty today as he opened the manila folder of ungraded papers in front of him.

 

But, no matter. He had time.

 

And anyways, he had to talk to her at some point.

…

 

 

 

 

 

By the time Jughead parked his car, he was already feeling spent from the long day. He left his ungraded papers in the back seat of his truck and proceeded to walk towards the park in a mildly surreptitious manner. But before he did so, he slung a book beneath his arm – _What We Talk About When We Talk About Love_ – not knowing whether she would be waiting there _for him_ – or, alternatively, if he would be the one waiting for _her_.

 

He continued walking down the stone path that led to the interior of the park, shooting furtive glances at the occasional person who brushed past him, not because he was doing anything wrong per se, but because – somehow _–_ Jughead knew that what he was doing _might_ appear to be a bit untoward to the casual passerby. He could just picture it now: one of the ‘old townies’ shooting knowing glances in his direction, thinking – but _never_ saying – what _are_ you up to _young man?_

 

 _Him_ , meeting up with a pretty girl at the only park in this tiny town. _Nothing to see here!_

 

( _Not_.)

 

Because while _he was_ – really and truly – intending _only_ to meet with her about the incident, he could feel – nay, knew that something unorthodox was about to happen and he was loath to stop it. The air, as he breathed it in, felt thicker than normal, full of expectation - _perhaps_.

 

 _Or,_ was it simply the springtime before it bows to the inevitable heat of summer, which would descend upon the town slowly as the sun edged away from the equator and the nights – now shortened – turned, inevitably, into a lengthened, languid summers day?

 

He hoped so.

 

But not two seconds later, his suspicions were all but confirmed when he saw her suddenly, a young woman framed by flora and invisible fauna, whose presence he could hear – but could not see – as the wind that swept through his tousled hair.

 

There she was, sitting alone beside the bank by the stream to her right, lying lazily atop a quilt of some sort with what appeared to be a picnic basket beside her torso. She was reading and from the looks things, it was that very book that he had lent her.

 

_Shit._

 

Jughead considered his options in the span of two panicked seconds. _Run_ , his inner man told him – flee before you do anything stupid by her, before you’re in _too deep_. But then he told himself a lie: you have to do this, you have to talk her, even if its _here_.

 

The lie won.

 

Jughead walked towards her, watching as she sat up. Her pastel sweater, which was riding up before, slid down her stomach and concealed the sliver of skin that was peeking out mere moments before.

 

Jughead’s feet stopped at the edge of the quilt. “What’s all this, Ms. Cooper?” Jughead smiled politely as he looked down at her, one hand in his coat pocket.

 

“Oh,” Betty said as she looked down, “I um,” she paused, swallowing hard as she tried to figure out what to say without embarrassing herself. “I grabbed some things from home, so I wouldn’t have to go home until late today.”

 

Whatever Jughead’s other suspicion about what _this_ was – which, at first blush, appeared to be a picnic of some sort, quickly dissipated. She wasn’t here to see him in private, to trick him into a picnic. No, she was hiding _here_.

 

Jughead couldn’t help but frown. He didn’t like the idea that she was essentially having to hide out at the park. He crouched down at the edge of the blanket, concern evident on his face as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” Did something else happen, Betty?” He dropped his hand when she shook her head. Then, he proceeded to sit down at the edge of the blanket, keeping a safe distance between them and placing his book down against the grass.

 

“Jughead,” Betty averted her gaze and winced as though the next thing she was going to say was painful, “ _I know_ that you have to tell someone about what happened to me, but –” She looked over at him, eyes pleading with his as she said, “Is it possible that you could – I don’t know what I’m asking here. I’m sorry.” Betty smiled uncomfortably and looked back at him. “It’s just, I don’t want anyone at school to know what happened, that’s all.”

 

“They won’t.” Jughead shook his head. “Whatever I tell Mr. Weathersby will be kept strict in confidence, I promise.”

 

That answer seemed to satisfy Betty. He watched as she let out a breath she was holding and relaxed atop the quilt. Then, she smiled and said, “That pie I was telling you about last time – well, I brought some of it, if –” Betty paused and looked down, “if you’d like to stay for a few minutes. But if _not_ , I –”

 

“Oh.” Jughead averted his gaze from hers and adjusted his beanie. When he looked up again, she seemed so eager, so happy in that moment that he didn’t want to let her down. “I’d love some, Ms. Cooper.”

 

Betty smiled in response. “I hope you like lemon.”

…

 

 

 

 

 

Later, after Jughead had had one too many slices of pie, he ended up laying on top of the blanket beside her, complaining of a horrible stomach ache. It made Betty laugh and as a result he decided to stay, if only for a little while to keep her company.

 

As he began to read, Betty in turn, mimicked his position until she too was lying beside him. As she watched Jughead turn page after page of the book he was reading, she decided that now was her moment.

 

She had to know. Even if he rejected her or things got weird – or worse. Still, Betty was going to do it.

 

And so, every so slowly, Betty inched her hand towards his, her fingers dancing against the diamond shaped hem of the comforter. She hesitated at first, but then, his fingers cupped a half circle and pushed against the fabric beneath them and she decided then, that it was now –

 

 _Or_ never.

 

Betty moved her fingers underneath his, paused, and waited.

 

Jughead, who clearly sensed the movement beneath his fingers and knew _of course_ that those tiny fingertips he felt were not those of an overgrown house spider. He knew. Oh, he knew. And instead of doing what he ought in this instance – balling his hand into his fist and ignoring it, maybe – he did something else instead. He looked down at their intertwined hands, looked at her, and then pushed her fingers through his.

 

They stayed like that for a good long while. Too long, in fact. A boy and a girl – a teacher and his student – holding hands alongside the expanse of water that trickled down the hill behind them as they read in tandem, with neither of them knowing what this meant.

...

To be continued.

 

 

_**Author's Note: And so it begins.** _

 

_**As always, comments are greatly appreciated. -Starry <3** _

 

 

 


	4. meet me in the woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty longs for an escape. And she gets it, sort of. 
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> As the two of them hold hands at twilight.

_he looked at her_

_the way she needed to be looked at_

_like the whole world would crumble_

_and she wouldn't blink_

 

**-Poem by Atticus**

 

 

__

It was like watching a living, breathing daydream. That’s what he was to her anyways as the young, love-struck, Elizabeth Cooper listened to her teacher wrap things up for the day.

 

“Now, I know a paper the last thing on your minds,” Mr. Jones said, rolling his eyes playfully whilst using a serious tone, “but as it stands, you _are_ required to turn in your final term paper to me no later than two weeks before graduation. I don’t make the rules, so don’t hold it over my head, okay?” Mr. Jones cleared his throat then, adding, “Any questions?” He waited for another second before one of the students in the front of the classroom raised her hand.

 

“Yes, Melody?” Mr. Jones gave her his undivided attention and uncrossed his arms.

 

Melody lowered her arm. “Does it _have_ to be twelve pages?” She asked tersely, a look of undue annoyance plastered all over her face.

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so, Ms. Valentine, but it could be so much worse, trust me.”

 

In response to Mr. Jones’s frank reply, a few students expressed their disdain in the form of an exasperated ‘uhg,’ or an ardent, ‘aww, man.’

 

“How?” Melody rolled her eyes. At this point in her academic career, it was safe to say that she, like the rest of her classmates, had already checked out mentally. They were all simply going through the motions now and anything _more_ – like this so called ‘term paper’ – well, Mr. Jones would be hard pressed to get anything out of them other than the bare minimum.

 

“Well,” Mr. Jones reached for the desk behind his back and gripped its edge, “imagine being in a graduate program and sixty pages _is_ the requisite minimum.”

 

Melody tilted her chin downwards, her mouth dropping just a little. “You serious?” She said, her incredulousness evident from her tone of voice.

 

“Quite.” Jughead smirked and glanced towards the back of the classroom. He was trying to see if any other students had any further questions for him, never mind that his focal point had a more singular focus.

 

( _Her._ )

 

When their eyes met, Betty nibbled on her lower lip, glanced down at her desk, and looked back up at him. She thought she would catch his eyes again, but, unfortunately for her, he had already moved on to another student’s question – Toni Topaz, who, from the sound of things, was only trying to try his last nerve.

 

He handled Ms. Topaz with grace, though – very same way, she recalled, he had handled her ( _and_ their subsequent hand-holding) when they had left the park together just a few days prior.

 

///

 

“Well,” Mr. Jones said, glancing down at their intertwined hands, his fingers pressed to hers, “this is where I bid you adieu, Ms. Cooper.” He paused for a moment, his cerulean eyes sparkling in the darkness of the endless lavender skies behind him. Dusk had already given up its faint, hazy setting, paving the way for a dark, crisp night beneath the April-to-May skies. The night air felt cold and damp and he could feel the tell-tale signs of a great rainstorm headed their way.

 

(But, perhaps the real storm here was the _he and she_ becoming, inevitably, _a they_.)

 

Betty’s teeth grazed her lower lip; her mouth appeared crimson against the violet night and her cheeks, which were round and full, were tinted a light mauve color beneath the light of the ripe, full moon. She watched as Jughead averted his gaze from hers, smiling downwards before looking up again to find her green eyes waiting for him, her gaze holding fast to his.

 

Jughead skimmed his thumb over the top of her hand, clasped it once politely and then let their hands drop. He quickly shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “You’re okay to drive home, right Ms. Cooper?” He need to feel reassured of her safety for obvious reasons _and_ given what he’d bore witness to a few days ago, well, he felt strangely responsible for the young woman’s well-being.

 

Betty nodded. She watched as Jughead shifted his feet and ran his long fingers through his hair – fingers, which she had first taken notice of as he had written notes along the chalkboard. (Now though, she was noticing his hands for a very different reason; she was thinking of how firm and warm they had felt against the inside of her palm). But she wanted to do more than simply hold his hand; she wanted to run her hands through his hair and kiss him senseless until neither of them could breathe.

 

Remembering the feel of his lips against hers – even if only for a mere, fleeting second – well, that was enough; she wanted to kiss them ( _and_ him) again.

 

But she would settle – at least, for now – for some innocent hand-holding. She figured that it was quite possible that he only indulged her out of sheer politeness. (That, or he was just worried about her and perhaps felt a little sorry for her, maybe?)

 

But, no matter.

 

“Good night, Betty.” Jughead just barely brushed the tip of his thumb against his nose and promptly let his only free hand disappear beneath the fabric of his plaid coat pocket.

 

“Night.” Betty waved softly, her hand brushing against the thickness of the cool night air, the light breeze catching her hair, which had been freed from her usual taut ponytail. (She had made a concerted effort to look more than merely “nice” right before Mr. Jones showed up at the park and discovered the “picnic” that she had planned for the two of them). She watched Mr. Jones turned on the rubber heels of his converse; he began walking hurriedly in the direction of his truck.

 

“Jughead!” Betty exclaimed in an instant, surprising even herself.

 

Mr. Jones turned around, catching a glimpse of Betty’s delicate hair as it twisted in the wind and all around her face. He watched her look up at the trees above them, her palms running down her sides apprehensively. _What should he say back to her_ , he deliberated in silence, when _they’d_ already done _too much_ – when _he’d_ already done too much. With his hands still in his pockets, he wondered what she would say (or do) next.

 

“I,” Betty said awkwardly, averting her gaze from his. There was a pregnant pause before she finally thought of something to say that wouldn’t sound decidedly like a come on. “Thanks,” She said a few seconds later, adding, “for – you know.”

 

“Anytime.” Mr. Jones smiled warmly as the breeze behind him caught the top of his hair; a few raven curls caught against the wind and loosened from the front of his head and cascaded down the front of his face. “See you at school, Ms. Cooper.”

 

“See you.” Betty mirrored his smile back to him. She watched as he turned back around, stepped off the sidewalk and, once again, walk in the direction of the driver’s seat of his truck.

 

A beat later, another gust of wind hit the back of Betty’s head, causing her to shiver. For she had not realized that it was even cold out. And until that very moment, her insides were anything but a mere mortal’s flesh, alive and outside on a quiet night in spring, no, for until that moment –

 

Her limbs had been kindling – and his fingers, a long, cool match – and at the center of her stomach, a dull, but ever apparent ball of nerves and fire.

 

///

 

Mr. Jones’s final instructions regarding the classes senior term paper were interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing overhead.

 

“ _And_ if you have any questions,” he said loudly as the bell chimed above him, “Please,” he admonished, “don’t wait until the very last minute, okay? Class dismissed.” Mr. Jones uncrossed his arms and walked around his desk. Then, he sat down at his desk leisurely and pushed his papers to the side. He looked up and double tapped the desk, watching as each of his students left the classroom one by one.

 

“Bye, Mr. Jones.” A student, who’s hands were gripping the straps of his backpack, waved a casual goodbye with his fingers extended outwards as he walked out.

 

“Take it easy, Brice.”

 

“Any exciting weekend plans, Mr. Jones?” Toni inquired with a wry smile, lingering beside his desk as Cheryl Blossom whipped her phone out directly behind her.

 

Cheryl Blossom didn’t look Mr. Jones in the eyes. Instead, she began to type something into her cell phone, smiling down at whatever she had typed, her brown eyes fixated against the glowing blue screen beneath them. She clicked the phone off and proceeded to look up at Mr. Jones expectantly. “So,” Cheryl said, quickly throwing her phone into the expanse of her patent leather _Louis Vuitton_ purse, “do you?” Her eyes and smile widened in the same instance as she pressed her cherry red lips together, tilting her head in an almost flirtatious manner.

 

Before responding to either of them, Mr. Jones’s gaze moved beyond the two young women; his glance flitting over her face for only a second. He could see Betty Cooper, who had gotten up from her desk languidly, gathering her purse and subsequently shoving the papers and books on her desk into a stacked bundle, which she pressed against her chest.

 

“No.” Mr. Jones looked back at Toni, who was grinning down at him with one hand thumbing at the strap of her blue pack back. “No weekend plans,” he said, glancing back at Betty, who finally caught his eye. “I _think_ you guys think I’m a lot more interesting than I actually _am_ ,” he said lightheartedly, adding as he placed his hands behind his head, “but alas, the life of a teacher is a woefully banal one.” Mr. Jones smiled politely at the two of them, pressing his lips together, a soft, playful curve appearing at the edge of his mouth.

 

“Banal?” Toni said in confusion.

 

“It means he’s boring, Antoinette,” Cheryl interjected. She took a calculated step forward and laced her arm in Toni’s, “isn’t that right, Mr. Jones?” She said facetiously, a bright, glib smile plastered all over her porcelain face. She flipped her red hair behind her shoulder with the back of her hand.

 

“I –,” Mr. Jones smiled amusedly, “yeah,” he said, “that’s exactly what it means, Ms. Blossom, very good.”

 

“Thanks,” Cheryl said, as a self-satisfied smile spread across her face. She knew how to impress men, a trait which was all too easy for her given her outward appearance, but _this one_ , well, he was no simpleton. She had realized that from day one. He would want more than a pretty face for him to ever take notice of her. And maybe she was no Marie Curie, sure, but she knew enough about men to know that their baser instincts were all the same. “Well, we should be going now, Mr. Jones. Come on, Antoinette.”

 

Toni smiled awkwardly and allowed her friend to pull her (and her gaping-wide jaw) away from Mr. Jones’s desk and out into the hallway.

 

“Have a good weekend _you two_ ,” Mr. Jones said politely. Once they had disappeared from the expanse of the doorway, he grinned and rolled his eyes. If only it had been that easy to garner the attention of young women when he had been a student himself, he thought humorously. But alas, no such luck. (Though, now he wasn’t sure if he would have wanted it back then if it would have been at all like this). Then, he turned his attention back to Betty, who was about to walk out the door too. “Um, Ms. Cooper,” Jughead urged gently, pressing both hands firmly against the desk as he straightened his shoulders, “a word, if you don’t mind.”

 

Feeling butterflies in her stomach all over again – it was a soft, fluttery fury – Betty turned around and came face to face with the young teacher once more. She smiled, then, almost painfully, not knowing what to say or do in this moment. It was the first time since they’d talked since the evening they had shared together at the park. She thought of that night again. It was hard not to. She thought of the way the fireflies had danced across the smooth waters beside them, gliding along the blue stillness of the water, their tiny limbs dangling precariously against the river’s edge. Some of them – not very many, but some – had ventured beyond the confines of the stream in search of greener pastures – flying alongside tree after darkened, verdant tree, each chocked full of lush vegetation and shade – their thin branches unperturbed by the whistle of the wind or the darkening of the night sky as the sun fell beneath the horizon line behind them.

 

Betty recalled the lucky ones – those fireflies who flew with a companion beside them; she watched them zoom past both she and Jughead, their tiny, bright bodies lit up in the otherworldly haze that was, and had _always_ been, Riverdale in twilight, their dimly lit bodies disappearing up into the trees as they let the winds carry them onwards. And their tiny Eden’s they did find, and it was in this singular moment that she too, a young girl concealed beneath the foliage and shade of the park, looked over at Jughead, his blue eye’s reflecting the green of the arbors above, realizing that maybe, just maybe, his irises held her own private Eden, too.

 

Mr. Jones, she decided, could probably feel her looking at him so intently; her gaze was singular and her focus, unwavering.

 

“It’s getting late,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb against her hand. His eyes met hers and waited.

 

“I know.” She gripped his hand tighter. “But I don’t want to go home,” she had whispered, eyes darting to his mouth, “not yet.”

 

“Okay,” he whispered, his blue eyes becoming an even bluer flame in the darkness. “Okay.”

 

Betty smiled and bit her full lip, watching Mr. Jones intently as he pulled his head back to the book he was reading. He squeezed her hand and continued stroking his thumb across her smooth, porcelain skin as twilight fell and the sky darkened above them.

 

///

 

Now, her mind suddenly back in the classroom at Riverdale High, Betty swallowed. She watched his hands glide across the expanse desk and thought of how good it had felt to hold his hand, to sit with him, to be _with him_.

 

Jughead got up from his desk and went over to shut the door – though, not all the way. He left it cracked partially (for posterity’s sake, certainly) and turned around. He smiled politely, and Betty watched his black converse take a few steps back towards his desk. “I know you’ve been having a hard time as of late,” he said pointedly, turning around and sitting back down in his chair, his back now pressed firmly against it, “and so,” he continued, clearing his throat a little, “I wanted to ask you something.”

 

With that, a simple question, Betty’s heart, which had so often been rended by life and her rather unfortunate living circumstances – felt as though it just might be pieced back together.

 

(Hopefully.)

 

Betty’s ears listened intently, curiously, and carefully as though she was hanging on his every word.

 

(And, to a larger degree, she was).

 

“I was wondering,” Jughead urged gently, “if, perhaps, you _might_ like a pet-sitting job,” then he added rather quickly, “but, no pressure.”

 

“Oh,” Betty said, confusion evidenced by her tone. So, _this_ wasn’t – and _he_ wasn’t – _oh_. But of course not, Betty. So, their time at the park, the longing glances they had shared – or so she had thought – what were they really, except moments that she had embellished in her own mind (of course he didn’t like her that way).

 

Sensing her bewilderment, Jughead smiled and went on to explain himself a bit more thoroughly, “The reason I was asking you,” he said genially, “was because it would mean that you would have a place to go a couple of times a week…if you needed it. I am required to attended these ‘teacher conferences,’” he said, emphasizing the words humorously, “and I’ll need someone to watch my kitten, Tinsel. Well, to feed her actually. She’s still a bit premature.”

 

A slow, sure smile spread across Betty’s pink lips. “You have a kitten?”

 

“I have a kitten,” Jughead smiled, “yes, and she’s very cute.” A grin appeared in the corners of his mouth as he gazed at Betty, studying her and trying to gauge her reaction just a little bit.

 

“So,” Betty began, “I mean –”

 

“You would essentially have the place to yourself, Betty.” Mr. Jones took off her grey beanie and ran his long fingers through his thick hair, “I wouldn’t even be home until late. You could watch TV, read, whatever you wanted. Oh, and I almost forgot to add, I will pay you whatever you want.”

 

Betty mulled it over, but before she could truly think it through, Jughead said something else – _the thing_ – that she had been hoping for, although, she realized, it was damn near impossible to expect or ever truly acquire.

 

“ _And_ ,” Mr. Jones said emphatically, “while you think it over, Betty, this lets me segue into the other thing that I wanted to ask you about.” His tone was quiet but certain. He looked up at her, smiling politely as his beanie slid down his forehead an inch in that endearing way it always did.

 

“Oh?” Betty raised her eyebrows. Her green irises reflected the lights of the classroom as she glanced down at him. She clutched the straps of her bag fastidiously, hanging on his every pause, every word. What would he say next, she wondered?

(Ask me out, _please_.)

 

“I know that we can’t meet this afternoon for the paper due to some unavoidable scheduling conflicts on my end, so,” Jughead said, “I was wondering if you would, maybe, want to meet elsewhere?”

 

“Okay,” Betty whispered softly, “Yeah. I mean, sure. Where else do you want to meet?” She tried to play it cool, not wanting him to know just how decidedly elated she was at hearing his words, at hearing _this_ – the thing she had so desperately wanted to hear (that is, that he wanted to see her outside of school, too). She was also hoping that this meant something _more_.

 

“Would you,” Jughead crossed his arms, clearing his throat just a little, “would you like to meet at the coffee shop in town this Saturday? I’ve actually been planning on going there for quite some time now,” he said. “The coffee shop is hosting an event there. It’s for writer’s, actually. The event is for people to showcase their own independently written works.”

 

“Really?” Betty was strangely intrigued. “So, this is happening _here_ ,” she said with emphasis, adding, “ _in Riverdale?_ ” This town, much to her chagrin, wasn’t exactly known for being a haven for artists – least of all, the budding writer.

 

“Yes.” Mr. Jones look down at the desk. His bright blue eyes widening. He appeared lost in thought before saying, “I am going to be reading something I wrote there, actually. You are more than welcome to tag along, and we can discuss _The Blue and Gold_ afterwards, how does that sound, Ms. Cooper?” Jughead flattened his palms against the desk and looked up at her.

 

Betty considered her options. There was no way in hell she was going to let this, or a potential chance to see him outside of school go. There were fleeting opportunities and then there were other things – things _like this_ – and this moment was something she would hold steadfast to.

 

(She would grab Icarus by the wings and yank him down from the highest heights of heaven if need be).

 

Betty smiled. “I’d like that,” she said excitedly. “And yes, I will pet-sit for you.” Betty gripped the side of the desk with both hands. “Should I meet you there first, or –”

 

“Oh, right.” Mr. Jones sat up straight. “The event starts later in the evening, so maybe it would be best to meet at my apartment first.” Jughead opened his desk drawer and fumbled for a notepad. “Here,” he held up the yellow legal pad, “let me just scribble my address down. You already have my contact info, Ms. Cooper.” Jughead used a black sharpie to mark down the directions to his home. “Here,” he said, “this is my address. You’re really helping me out, Betty, seriously. I appreciate this.”

 

Betty took the piece of paper in hand. She felt her ears burning as she looks down at his handwriting. When she looked up again, she was surprised to see Jughead grinning. “So, _Ms. Cooper_ ,” he said amusingly, drawing out her name under the heat of his breath, “any riveting plans this Friday evening?”

 

Betty shook her head as she pressed her lower back against the desk behind her.

 

“Well,” Jughead leaned back against his chair, “let me know what you think a fair price would be for pet sitting, okay? We’ll discuss it at length Saturday.”

 

“I could just do it for free,” she said in earnest. And she meant it. “It’ll be nice to have somewhere else to go, you know,” she said with a shrug.

 

Jughead laughed. “Careful, Ms. Cooper,” he admonished, pointing his index finger at her as he squinted his indigo eyes, “I might just take you up on your offer.”

 

He smiled, then. It was one of those endearing smiles – vibrant and warm and oh so inviting – that she had seen more of than her classmates. It made her heart flutter.

 

“But I will.” Her tone was firm, insistent. Betty placed the yellow paper in her jean pocket, pushing its crisp paper edges beneath the denim folds.

 

“But you haven’t even seen what I need you to do yet,” Mr. Jones pointed out as he gathered the papers from his desk. “And,” he said in admission, “you just might think it’s more trouble than its worth.”

 

Betty shrugged again.

 

“Well, I suppose it’s settled then. I will see you on Saturday. You tell me your hourly rate then, okay?”

 

“Okay.” Betty tilted her head to the side to study him, subconsciously biting her lower lip and bending her knees. “Saturday night?”

 

“Saturday night.” Jughead flattened the thick pile of papers against the desks surface. He grinned as he looked down at the desk, a light laugh breaking through. Then, he looked back up at her, eyes dancing as he said, “I will see you tomorrow, Betty.”

.

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Betty was all smiles as she sauntered down the hallway.

 

 _Tomorrow, tomorrow_ , her brain chanted, the words on the tip of her tongue like a long, drawn-out melody played on repeat. Her ponytail bobbed up and down as she rounded the hallway, looking dazed like she was in a veritable trance. But innocent, school-girl crushes – though unrequited – seem to have that effect on her especially –

 

And anyone her age, really.

 

She was a young lady, true, but, also, her form was suspended somewhere between the physical accoutrements of both her childhood and womanhood. She was a chrysalis on the verge of change – and change was an inevitable part of her metamorphosis.

 

 And her cocoon – whose ribbons, once confining and binding, were now unraveling their wrap – and the hand that tugged them thus, had untethered them from their confining cords with a single pull, a tug, _a snap!_

 

Betty shoved her books and notepad inside her backpack and zipped it up. Then, she quickly undid her locker and grabbed what she needed for remainder of the weekend. She tucked a few books beneath her arm and slammed the tarnished metal door against its square frame.

 

“God, Cheryl!” Betty yelled suddenly, taking two steps back as she placed her palm against her chest, her heart now beating furiously. She looked up at Cheryl Blossom, who seemed strangely unperturbed, and shot her a _what the hell_ kind of look as her heart rate steadied.

 

“You know,” Cheryl said coolly, leaning up against the side of the lockers, crossing her legs and arms in the same instance, “you _might_ not want to stare at the teacher so much, Betty. Because you’re making it painfully obvious – at least from where Toni and I are sitting – that you kind of have _a thing_ for him.”

 

Toni Topaz appeared beside Cheryl a second later; she followed up on Cheryl’s observations, concurring with her as she said rather pointedly, “We both watched you today, Betty. You were practically drooling over him.” Toni licked her bottom lip, arching her eyebrows as if to say _try me_.

 

Toni and Cheryl exchanged knowing glances as Cheryl slung her shoulders back and ran her fingernails through her long, red hair.

 

“I wasn’t staring.” Betty corrected. Though, she knew she had been caught.

 

“Oh relax, Betty.” Cheryl glanced down at her cuticles and back up at her cousin. “Antoinette and I are just giving you a hard time. And besides, practically every girl in our class has a crush on him. Right, Toni?” Cheryl glanced down at her pretty, diminutive pal.

 

“Totally.” Toni nodded in agreement. “Mister Jones is quite a babe.”

 

Cheryl grinned and looked back at Betty. She began fumbling in her purse for some overpriced lipstick – _Dior_ , probably. When she found what she was looking for, she uncapped the silver lid and began to apply it liberally to her pout, using the tube as a makeshift mirror. After another second, she capped the tube and handed it to Toni Topaz, who smiled and shook her head.

 

“Suit yourself, Antoinette. Anyways,” Cheryl said, looking her cousin up and down in a slightly disproving manner, “if you aren’t doing anything tonight, you should come hang with us.”

 

Toni agreed.

 

“I don’t know, guys.” In the past, whenever Betty hung out with one or both of them, someone ended up a little worse for wear. Or drunk, or high. But for her, an evening spent drinking the day away was better than the alternative: her parent’s house.

 

Cheryl linked her arm through Betty’s free one and grasped her arm. “Look, Betty, what’s your mom always saying about ‘being more social.’” A superficial smile appeared in the corner of her lips. She had her and she knew it.

 

“Fine,” Betty conceded. “I’ll hang out with you two, but,” Betty admonished, her index finger extended in their direction, “there’s a condition. No drugs and _no_ house parties.”

 

Although she had few friends, Betty was wary of her cousin’s all too casual invite. She had been burned by her before. The first time it had happened, she had gotten drunk at an out-of-control rager, which Cheryl threw outdoors on the grounds her family’s spacious estate; her parents, who were never really around much anyways, were away on business at the time. Betty remembered, clearly, hugging the upstairs toilet next to Cheryl’s ornate bedroom – a dark, expansive chamber in the west wing of the house – a room, whose regal ornamentation consisted of mauve cushions and gilded trimmings. She remembered sharing part of the night staring at a rather garish portrait of a young noble holding a swan, feeling as though the portrait, which was both gaudy and alarming, was judging her.    

 

Betty’s bright green eyes searched her cousin’s face for any tell-tale signs of latent sneakiness. She was well-acquainted with her cousin’s favorite leisure activities, which included no less than the typical high school social climbing, rowdy house parties on both the north ( _and_ southside) of town – which almost always included disorderly conduct and ended, inevitably, in someone getting wasted – or, at the very least, embarrassing themselves in front of a large group of their cliquish peers.

 

And she wasn’t about to fall for it again, either.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, cousin.” Cheryl said sarcastically as a slow, mischievous smile spread across her lips. She was lying, of course.

 

“Relax Betty, were just going to Pop’s,” Toni interjected as she toyed idly with her pale pink hair. “But we _might_ do something after.” She looked over at Cheryl, who returned her furtive glance and grinned wickedly. “You down, Betty?”

 

Betty considered her options: an evening at home or, in the alternative, a night out _with them._

 

The choice, it seemed, had already been made. It had been written in the stars long, long ago, or, alternatively, had already occurred somewhere and in someplace outside of time. And she – Riverdale’s last innocent, who looked every bit an angel – was already dead in the depths of hell or at the cusp of heaven’s gate (for we are not god and one can never be sure whether one’s soul will dip down or descend above).

 

Betty sighed softly.

 

And lo, she would go, yes, she would go – to Pop’s. To drink, to drug, and maybe –

 

To sleep. (Though it wouldn’t be in her own bed, probably). But better a bed shared with another party’s head than a sleeping above the monster she called, simply, “Mother.”

 

“Fine,” Betty said, “but I’m only staying for Pop’s. Her tone was insistent but firm.

 

( _Just Pop’s._ Yeah right, Betty.)

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. 

Jughead stood outside the Assistant Principal’s office door with a heavy heart, ruminating.

 

Should he, or _shouldn’t_ he?

 

It’s your non-delegable duty, his own voice said to himself, narrating what sounded like the reading aloud of the student-teacher’s manual in his brain – it _is_ your legal duty – as a teacher, as a friend. Jughead sighed. It was one of the long-winded _I don’t want to but have to_ kind of sighs. For he was all too aware of what telling the assistant principal might result in.

 

But then, he thought of Betty, remembering how bad that gash had been across her pink cheeks and how, with her face pressed to his chest, she had sobbed, her hands bunched behind his back like she hadn’t been held in so long –

 

So very, very long.

 

_Fuck._

 

Mr. Jones wavered no longer. Instead, he rapped his clenched fist against the door, assuring himself that he was doing right – doing the _right thing_ and _for her_.

 

“Come in,” a friendly and assured voice called from inside.

 

“Good afternoon, Sir.” Mr. Jones shut the door. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.” He scratched his head awkwardly, pausing in front of the door.

 

“Not at all,” the assistant principal said politely, motion to the leather chair at the front of his desk, “Please, take a seat.”

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The small, but popular restaurant was full, though not _too crowded_.

 

Betty sat alone at the opposite end of Cheryl and Toni, who were splitting a basket of fries. She listened intently to their conversation, interjecting between taking sips of her strawberry milkshake.

 

“So, how old is Mr. Jones anyways?” Toni said, taking a quick bite of a French fry, “Do _we_ know?” She chewed her food slowly and looked over at both Cheryl and Betty, eagerly awaiting a response as her fingers pulled another fry from the red basket in front of her.

 

“My guess is somewhere in the ballpark of twenty-five,” Cheryl said coolly, taking a sip of her iced tea.

 

“Twenty-two,” Betty interjected.

 

Toni’s eyes widened in surprise and Cheryl, who was busy scrolling through the _Saks Fifth Avenue app_ , looked up from her tablet immediately.

 

“Mr. Jones is _twenty-two_.” Betty cupped her neck nervously, encircling her palm over her smooth, ivory skin. She glanced down at the frothy whip cream in the center of her milkshake, thinking. _Had she said too much?_ She swirled it around with her red straw, wondering suddenly if she had inadvertently revealed a secret of his.

 

“Twenty-two,” Toni repeated; her soft, hazel eyes appeared to grow two sizes as she murmured so that only the three of them could hear, “Well, _fuck me, daddy_ ,” She said to herself, hitting the roof of her mouth with her tongue. Satisfied with her quip, she let out a light laugh and looked over at Cheryl, whose crimson lips were curled into a wry smile.

 

“How’d you find that out, Betty,” Cheryl’s tone was insistent, “did _he_ tell you?” Cheryl inquired as she pushed the basked of fries to a very eager Toni, who gladly took the plastic basket from her friends pristinely manicured hands.

 

Betty blinked. “I asked him,” she said simply, one hand cupping the glass of her milkshake.

 

Cheryl squinted like she was trying to read her. “Teachers don’t just volunteer that kind of information, Betty.” She felt like her cousin was keeping something from her, though what said thing could be, well, she was unsure. “You like him,” Cheryl added, eyes searching for something her cousin’s – an admission, perhaps – as she said emphatically, “ _a lot_.” She would find out what her cousin really thought of the young teacher, easy. She did the same kind of thing with adults (and _men_ ) all the time; her cousin, she decided, would be an easier target to poke at.

 

Betty bit her lower lip. It wasn’t untrue. And yes, while she had been spending a lot more time with Mr. Jones as of late, it was inconceivable to think that anything of substance – romantic or otherwise – could ever really happen between them. After all, even though he had held her hand in the park, she had sort of tricked him into doing it. It was a moment, sure, and a very memorable one at that. In the back of her mind, there was a distinct possibility that he had only held her hand out of sheer politeness. No more, no less.

 

Just as Cheryl was about to interject, the front door to Pop’s opened, causing the silver bell directly above to chime, _ting – ting!_

 

“Shit,” Betty murmured, upon realizing who it was; Mr. Jones had just strolled into Pop’s and from the looks of things, was about to grade a stack of student papers ( _their_ papers, probably). She looked away from the direction of the door suddenly, staring down at the pale, linoleum table. She watched her own reflection at the edge of the table, which was made of shiny metal. She looked like a veritable deer in headlights.

 

Mr. Jones waved casually in their direction and walked over to sit in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. Then, he smiled at them and pulled out his laptop and sat a stack of papers atop the table countertop.

 

Cheryl sat up and ran her teeth along her lower lip. She glanced over at Mr. Jones and then looked over at Betty, who’s cheeks appeared pinkened beneath the neon lights. “Still wanna deny that little crush your nursing there, cuz,” Cheryl teased, lowering her gaze in an evocative manner. She looked down at her drink, swirling the ice against her plastic straw.

 

Toni suppressed a laugh. “You are so red right now, Betty.” She looked over at Cheryl; they exchanged stealthy looks and began to giggle intermittently, with each of them throwing the occasional curious glance back at the young professor, who was immersed in reading the pile of papers on his desk – _too immersed_ in fact to take notice of the curious young women shooting furtive glances in his general direction. His beanie was off for a change; he had stuck it at the edge of the linoleum table where it stood still as he ran his long, limber fingers through his loose black waves.

 

Meanwhile, Betty, who could feel her face burning – hot and red beneath the neon lights of the diner – sunk further and further into the red vinyl Deco booth, as if that was going to conceal her from his preoccupied gaze somehow.

 

Cheryl ran a finger across her lower lip and examined it. She decided she needed a touch of rouge and a just a pat of powder to mattify her skin, which was likely looking less than pristine beneath the dull lights of the diner. “I’m going to powder my nose,” Cheryl announced. “Antoinette, why don’t you –”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Toni slid to the right of the booth. She stood up and perched her elbow against the gleaming plastic booth. “Your girl will accompany you to the restroom, my queen.”

 

“Excellent.” Cheryl gave a satisfied smile as she slid her long, ivory legs out from beneath the booth. She took Toni’s hand and stood up, balancing both of her red heels against the off-white linoleum tiles. “Be right back, cousin,” she said. Then, she leaned down and pressed her hands against the table, whispering albeit facetiously, “Oh and Betty?”

 

“Yeah?” Betty sat up and their eyes locked.

 

“Try not to stare at what’s his face while were away,” she teased, tilting her head for emphasis, “ _kay?_ ”

 

Toni started cackling as Cheryl stood up straight again. As they walked away, Betty sunk her back against the soft cushion in the middle of the booth, wondering why in the hell she had agreed to even come here with the two of them in the first place.

 

When they had both had disappeared, Betty pulled her gaze from the table. What she didn’t expect to happen, though, was for her eyes to lock with his. Betty swallowed and managed to straighten her posture.

 

‘You okay,’ he mouthed, setting his coffee cup down on the table. His brow was furrowed and his stance alert, a distinct aberration from what the three of them had seen just a few minutes prior – a sleepy, relaxed, Mr. Jones.

 

Betty realized that he was probably just worried about her given what had happened to her. Not wanting to be a burden to him, she smiled politely and nodded, holding his gaze for another second. When Cheryl and Toni reemerged from the restroom a minute later, Betty tore her gaze from his and watched them as they walked back to the table; they were now wearing the same shade of cherry-hued lipstick, Betty concluded that Cheryl had strongly suggested (probably) that Toni also fix her makeup. Amused, her eyes immediately went to his as if to say: _do you see this too?_ Jughead rolled his eyes playfully in response, feigning annoyance; he smiled and took a light sip of his coffee, smirking beneath the rounded edge of the porcelain cup. Betty begin to laugh hysterically in response and covered her mouth.

 

“What’s funny?” Cheryl quipped, flipping her red hair behind her head.

 

“Nothing,” Betty lied, a soft smile still evident on her face.

 

“You ready to go?” Toni inquired, one hand fixed to her right hip.

 

“I,” Betty said, fumbling for her purse, “yeah,” she said. “Yeah okay.” Betty stood up from the booth and slung her blue bag across her shoulders.

 

Meanwhile, Cheryl threw a twenty down on the table and yelled piercingly, “Keep the change, Pop.”

 

“Thank you, dear. You kids have fun tonight, oh and be safe, ya hear?” Pop Tate said genially from behind the counter as he punched in several glossy buttons on the register.

 

“Oh, _we will_ ,” Cheryl murmured, more to herself than to Pop Tate. She smiled and stood up straight, brushing off some invisible lint from her black leather skirt.

 

Before they left the vicinity of the diner, Toni yelled, “Hi, Mr. Jones,” and Jughead, who was immersed in grading and something or another on his laptop looked up in surprise.

 

Mr. Jones smiled. “Hello, Toni,” he said coolly, the faintest hint of sarcasm laced behind the external politeness he trying to convey.

 

“Bye, Mr. Jones,” Cheryl said, waving back at him like she was some sort of debutante.

 

Betty rolled her eyes and followed them out the door, but not before turning back to look at Mr. Jones, who was grinning as if he had just witnessed the height of hilarity.

 

‘Sorry,’ Betty mouthed. She walked towards the door and paused for a mere second. And then, she heard _his voice_ – and – and – it was calling _her_ name.

 

“Betty?” His voice was soft and his tone light, but persistent.

 

Betty turned around. “What?” She smiled in surprise.

 

But then she heard Toni yelling at her from the outside of Pop’s. She turned her head, her eyes looking beyond the expanse of the door frame.

 

“Betty!” Toni motioned for her to come outside. “You coming or what?” Toni tilted her head to the side and pressed her knuckles directly above her left hip.

 

Betty’s eyes looked beyond the expanse of the metal, red door; Toni, who could still hear the oldies emanating from the inside of the Deco diner, began to sing them to herself, ‘ _Imma shake, rattle n’ roll, huh!,’_ snapping her fingers into the sky as she pretended to dance here and there, her sneakers bouncing up and down against the black pavement. And Cheryl, who, clearly, was both amused and mildly annoyed with her friend’s showiness, grinned and rolled her eyes. She pulled out her phone and began touching the shiny glass screen with her red nails.

 

“See you tomorrow,” he said, the softest smile creeping across his lips. He uncrossed his arms and glanced down at his hazy refection in the table. Then, he looked up at her again, their eyes meeting for a fleeting second – a second, which, _to her_ felt like an eternity.

 

“Bye.” Betty returned his smile. The moment lingered as her gaze held his – it was intense, freeing, and a little curious. Betty wanted him to see her – really and truly _see her_ – as she was – no more, no less. The moment ended just as easily. Then, she turned back around and disappeared out the front door.

 

Mr. Jones, who was a bit hyped up from the black coffee he’d been imbibing like it was water for the last twenty minutes, looked back at his laptop screen and smiled to himself. It was one of those secret smiles that one does only for their own benefit; something external reflecting the internal – both strange and wonderful in the same instance. It was the kind of smile one does when they are thinking of something that makes them feel happy (as though all their travails have been worthwhile).

 

But –

 

In his case, the smile wasn’t for _a thing_ – tangible, destructible and tarnished by time. Instead, rather, the secret grin was for _a someone_. For everyone’s souls have a way of knowing something before even we do. It’s the kind of thing that starts in one’s gut and lingers long after the person is gone.

 

And his soul, too, in recognizing her from somewhere outside the expanse of time, was on high, high alert tonight –

 

Though he knew not _why_.

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 The night air blew the crunchy, dry leaves beneath their feet as Betty, Toni, and Cheryl stood outside of Pop’s, lingering.

 

“I should go,” Betty said, clutching her pastel sweater over her elbows. She shivered and watched as Cheryl pulled something – a clear white bottle (cane rum from the looks of things) from beneath the depths of her costly, leather _Louis_.

 

Cheryl shook the bottle in hand. “It’s one-fifty-one,” she said emphatically. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over?” she asked once more, throwing a mischievous glance over at Toni, who smirked and placed her hands on her hips. “Because mother isn’t home. It could be fun.” Cheryl cooed, “Come on, cousin. We never hang out anymore,” she urged, “come drinking with us – just this once, Betty, and stop being so decidedly virginal with everything.”

 

Betty considers her options. She considers _this_ – drinking with Cheryl _and Toni_ , who isn’t really her friend, though Toni has never been uncordial to her per se. But, still. Getting loaded at her cousin’s house (nay, small estate) on a Friday night wasn’t exactly in her best plan plans. (But, she reminds herself, this type of behavior – getting wasted with Cheryl was kind of par for the course – at least, where she was concerned). And yet – yet – it wasn’t not in her plans either; she knew what she’d be getting up to if she agreed to go with them and _this_ – well, this wasn’t exactly unforeseeable either.

 

But nothing was as simple as a solid _hang_ with these two, ever. No, not when Cheryl Blossom and her mischievous friend are involved (or any acquaintance of hers, really). But there’s rum. And then there’s the fact that she has nothing to do tonight.

 

But then, she remembers.

 

She thinks of him, imagining the soft smile he’d given her, hoping – if only to soothe her tired brain – that that had meant something more. But she’s definitely not thinking of what he said to her.

 

No, not at all.

 

And she should sleep, probably, but going to Cheryl’s meant that she didn’t have to be home – alone and in her room avoiding _monsters_ , whose surnames begin with _Mrs._ and end, nearly always, with some heavy-handed _handling_ of her cheeks, her face.

 

In the end, fear decides for her; it’s the fear of her mother that drives her to hang out with these two on a quiet Friday night – even if they aren’t exactly _close_.

 

But despite her baser instincts, she says _yes_.

 

“One shot,” Betty agreed, making a one with her index finger.

 

“Girl,” Toni said, wrapping her arm around Betty as Cheryl smiled through her teeth, “it’s about to get _lit_.”

 

“Leave your car here,” Cheryl directed as she zipped up her purse, “unless,” she added rather ruefully, turning on her high heels, “you don’t intend to stay the night.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

Cheryl batted her long, glossy eyelashes at Betty, feigning hurt feelings, which irked Betty just a little.

 

“Fine, fine.” Betty conceded.

 

“Excellent.” Cheryl grinned.

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“Your turn, girl.” Toni wiped the wetness her pink lips and handed the clear bottle of Bacardi and an empty shot glass to Betty. “Come on,” she said, shaking the bottle in hand, its contents sloshing upwards and down the walls of the bottle, “it’s _only_ your second shot, Betty.”

 

Scandal’s _The Warrior_ began to rev up from Toni’s laptop at the edge of the kitchen counter, blasting distinctly sharp cords against her ears as Betty considered whether or not to have another drink.

 

Betty gripped the crystal shot glass in hand, considering the potential repercussions of having another shot; she was already breaking all her own rules – including her _one shot only_ rule. But when she looked up again, her eyes met Cheryl’s.

 

( _Come on, bitch, do it,_ Cheryl’s expression seemed to say, her heavily lashed eyelids fluttered seamlessly…as if coaxing her onwards and into the abyss albeit wordlessly).

 

“It’s just a shot, Betty,” Cheryl echoed, tilting her own shot glass back. Her eyes were already glazed over, the telltale signs of inebriation were beginning to take effect.

 

Betty looked up at her cousin, who seemed to throw back the shots with ease. “Fine.” Betty tilted the glass at Toni, who eagerly poured the pungent, colorless liquid into the small vial. The shot glass filled up so quickly in fact that Toni had just barely pulled up the neck of the bottle from the counter but still managed to accidentally spill a little against the granite countertop.

 

“Oops.” Toni smiled awkwardly, shrugging just a little.

 

Cheryl, however, seen unperturbed; instead, her gaze was fixed on Betty.

 

Betty pressed the edge of the glass to her lips and downed her drink in one short swig. The second shot, much like the first one, stung going down – its aroma crisp and strong – but had a nice, cooling after-effect in her throat.

 

“Let’s play a game,” Cheryl announced suddenly with a tilt of her head, eyes unwavering from her target as her pale hands slid down the granite countertop.

 

Toni’s ears perked up. She leaned across the counter, swirling a strong drink in her hand as Cheryl turned to look at her. Toni began to snicker, hiding her amusement beneath the edge of her drink; she took another quick sip and glanced over at Betty, who was standing stiffly next to the counter, looking down at the dark granite like it was a reflective pool.

 

As if she had planned this all alone (and she had, sort of), Cheryl grabbed the bottle of clear rum beside her and uncapped its wooden cork purposefully, a loud pop echoing against her ears as she began to douse several empty shot glasses in front of her with the liquid, spilling it down and around the edges of each shiny glass. “So,” Cheryl stuck the wooden cap back into the bottle, smacking it in with her flattened palm, “let’s play a game of truth or dare, shall we?”

 

Betty swallowed. “Guys, I can’t drink anymore,” she said rather pointedly, thinking of her ‘date’ with Mr. Jones tomorrow and how getting wasted could put a damper on their express plans. “I have somewhere to be tomorrow night,” she added nervously, toying with her ponytail, “and I can’t get _too_ messed up, okay?”

 

“Relax Betty.” Cheryl lifted one of the glasses to her red lips. “You can just…give us a truth instead.”

 

Toni, who’s golden brown eyes appeared glazed over, began snickering wildly beside Cheryl, who imbibed the shot suddenly, gulping it down like it was water. Satisfied that the alcohol was now taking effect on her (and Betty), Cheryl pushed the overflowing shot glass in front of her cousin to goad her, knowing full well that Betty would either fess up or drink up. “Pick your poison, Betty,” she coaxed, licking the spilled alcohol from her fingers; she settled her hands against the granite, finally, a menacing, _I fucking have you and you know it_ kind of look plastered all over her face, her smile, “truth or dare, Betty.”

 

Betty cradled her forehead and looked down in defeat. “Truth,” she muttered softly, wishing the night was over already. And it would be, but not for a while – at least, not until Toni and Cheryl had drank themselves under the table.

 

“So, Betty,” Cheryl said, standing up straight, “tell us, who was the last person you thought about when you were… _touching yourself?_ ”

 

Betty groaned. But of course, she would ask _that_ , she thought to herself. She looked up from the counter, eyes tired and a little red, though she hasn’t yet resigned to her fate. “And what if I don’t want to answer that,” she implored gently, hoping to save herself from a little bit of embarrassment.

 

“Aw, come on,” Toni interjected, slurring her words just a little. Her eyes appeared soft, her eyelids shut slightly; the obvious signs of intoxication had already taken effect. “It’s just one question, _Betts_.” Toni rested her head against her palm, batting her eyelashes at Betty in a playful, listless manner.

 

Cheryl watched Toni approvingly and turned back to Betty. “You know,” she instructed, “you could always take a drink _instead_ – but where’s the fun in that?”

 

Betty felt her cheeks heat; they were probably pink – or an even darker telling shade of crimson by now. Her stomach, though she hasn’t eaten since Pop’s, felt full and hot like a low, burning fire.

 

“Oh my.” Cheryl perked up, smiling almost salaciously. “Whatever you’re about to say is juicy, I can tell. Come on, Betty –” She motioned at the full shot-glass, its cut corners glistening beneath the lights of the kitchen. “Drink up, or spill. I’m waiting,” Cheryl said again, employing her standard sing-song tone of voice.

 

“And don’t lie,” Toni interjected, a hiccup escaping out of her throat. “Because we’ll know.” Toni pointed her finger into the air; her hand, which appeared as unstable as she was, shook beneath her extended finger.

 

The name of the person she had thought of in the quiet stillness of her bedroom ( _his_ name), was on the tip of her tongue. It had started out innocent enough at first, as all dreams and fantasies do. She thought of what he would say to her as he held her there: _It’s going to be okay, Betty,_ he would say, _I’m here. Don’t worry._ Her eyes had shut at the prospect of being held so lovingly, so tight. And then, she thought of their eyes meeting in the darkness; she had bitten her lip as her hand trailed downwards, picturing him hovering above her – caressing her hair, her face – and kissing her. He would smile afterwards, after the kiss – she did, too – and then, then –

 

The kissing took on a life of its own and turned into something _more_ , something – the thing – that her mother had admonished her not to do.

 

 _Yes, yes, yes!_ She had uttered his name into the darkness, then – suddenly writhing beneath her own bedsheets with her eyes clenched shut.

 

Betty shut her eyes again – only, _this time_ , in the kitchen of her cousin’s sizeable estate.

 

“Mr. Jones,” she whispered almost inaudibly, uncrossing her arms and deliberately not looking either Cheryl or Toni in the eyes. She winced internally, as if recoiling at the sound of her own words as though – somehow – she could will them back into her mouth.

 

“Holy shit.” Toni began to laugh.

 

Satisfied with her cousin’s private admission, Cheryl ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth and shut her mouth. She cocked one eyebrow and pressed her lips together. “Anything else, Betty?”

 

Betty shook her head. Her face was burning; internally, she was trying – and failing – to think of something other than the first time she had kissed _him_.

 

Cheryl reached for the bottle of rum and poured herself another shot. “Are you sure, Betty? I mean,” Cheryl sat the glass bottle down, “not to be all creepy, but –”

 

“Oh, she’s totally gonna get creepy,” Toni interrupted.

 

Cheryl glanced at Toni once disapprovingly and then turned back to Betty, “So,” she said coolly, as if what she was about to say wasn’t intrusive when it was, “what position did you imagine him doing you from, anyways?”

 

“God, Cheryl,” Betty covered her face with her hands, “please,” she pleaded softly, “no more questions for tonight, okay? I played your game. Gimme a break.”

 

“Fine. Have it your way, Betty.”

 

“I vote for the reverse cowgirl,” Toni interjected bullishly, pulling her glass up from the table as if she was doing a mock cheers, “that really hits the spot.” She hiccupped lightly and covered her mouth before Cheryl had the chance to scold her for ‘overdoing it, again.’ 

 

“I’m hungry,” Betty announced suddenly, already feeling completely out of her comfort zone. Her cousin and Toni were far too obsessed with all things adult for her liking. She wanted to escape the situation – and another awkward round of truth or dare with an overzealous Cheryl asking all manner of loaded, crass questions about sex and other things – if only for a few minutes.

 

“You know where the pantry is, Betty.” Cheryl nodded at the corner of the long, spacious kitchen.

 

As Cheryl watched Betty walk away from the island in the center of the kitchen, she turned to Toni, lowering her voice, “What’d I tell you, Antoinette.”

 

Toni was already half-drunk and showed no signs of stopping. “You were right,” Toni whispered in agreement, “she _so_ has a thing for him.”

 

Meanwhile, Betty, who would sort of hear them laughing from behind her stared eagerly at the insides of the spacious, well-organized pantry. She needed something – anything – to sober up now. Otherwise, it was going to be a long, _long_ night. And – and – there was no way she was missing her outing with Mr. Jones the following night. Betty sighed and looked over at the second shelf. _Chips_ , she decided in the end. _Yes, you’ll do for now._

 

She grabbed the crunchy, metallic bag.

 

As she shut the pantry door, her eyes caught the sight of the moon outside, its silhouette just beyond the corner of the wide window situated directly above the kitchen sink. The moon, at first glance, appeared full and bright, revealing tiny, glistening purple critters beneath its wake; she watched a couple of June bugs hover against the window for a split second and then, they were off. The trees just beyond the window were thick and full, concealing – albeit, partially, the dark, ravenous woods that lie just beyond their sinuous, wooden frames. She wished then, that she could run into those very woods – tall, dark, _and dangerous_ – to flee and never look back. But she knew all too well that that would be a mistake. Yes, she knew. She had heard strange stories about said woods – tales of disrepute whispered over hushed tones at the school lunch table about locals disappearing inside them – and worse. Betty shuddered at the thought. And as she glanced over at her cousin Cheryl and Toni, she sighed to herself meditatively – feeling a little dejected and pensive.

 

In the end, she decided, sometimes the danger _you know_ is preferable to the danger _you do not_.

 

Even if unknown beckoned, summoning her with warm, open arms.

 

She’d say _no_ , she decided, for as long as she could.

 

Never mind her resolve had long gone; it had embraced unknown’s limber arms in the quiet darkness of her bedroom, whispering back to her in soft, feverish bursts against the nape of her neck: Betty, Betty, _Betty_.

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By the time Cheryl had sobered up – at least, _enough_ to both drive Betty _to_ and drop her off _at Pop’s_ (albeit, begrudgingly because of her alcohol-induced headache – and she had said as much beneath a pair of ostentatious, red sunglasses) it was already well past noon, which meant that she didn’t get home – technically – until the early afternoon.

 

(But at least – at least – this – her foray into Cheryl’s world of partying and drinking – hadn’t affected her upcoming date that night with Mr. Jones. Otherwise, she would’ve have had far more than a hangover the next day; she would have shot up from her sleeping bag that morning – angry and filled with regret, surely, kicking herself for getting loaded with Cheryl – and her tiny, extroverted pal of all people).  

 

Instead, it Betty had woken up that sunlit morning on the lush, crimson carpeting of Cheryl’s Gothic-styled boudoir. And as she looked around the room, eyes still sleepy, she noticed two distinct things. Toni, who was sleeping not far from her, appeared to be passed out, still sleeping off her drunken stupor, which was evidenced by both the quantity of alcohol both she and Cheryl had imbibed the night before, and the plethora of empty, stale brown bottles of something or another – beer, or vodka tonics (Betty couldn’t differentiate anyways) which were littered next to Cheryl’s Edwardian-style mahogany nightstand, the bottlenecks now glinting against the sunlight, their stout shadows creeping through the thick, velveteen curtains behind them.

 

Betty sighed; it was going to be a good, long while before either of them could drive. Coffee, she decided, would be the apt thing to get right now as neither of them showed any signs of waking up soon anyways.

 

She slipped out of the dark room unnoticed, tiptoeing quietly down the expansive hallway in the direction of the west wing, bound for the gilded, Rococo bathroom first – and then, the kitchen.

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Back at her house – later that day – there was, for once, a lot less tiptoeing going on – at least on her end, anyways.

 

And for that, Betty was relieved.

 

Although Betty had sent her mother a text the night before, explaining, among other things that she was **_being sociable_** , much to her mother’s sheer delight (and _like clockwork_ , her mother had sent several elated follow-up texts, including an emphatic: **_great, dear! stay as long as you like and tell Cheryl I said hello, too._** However, when she got home, she found among other things, a brief handwritten note – copy paper with all-too-succinct cursive scribbles, which appeared to be written forcefully – atop the kitchen counter with a twenty-dollar bill taped neatly at its front: **_working late, dear. please order pizza. love, mom._**

****

Betty thumbed the paper and grinned. No mom, no rules, _yes_. She dashed out of the kitchen, suddenly, kicking her silver _Tory Burch_ flats off in a hurry at the foot of the staircase, which was adjacent to the front door and ran excitedly up the stairs, her hand and fingers gliding against the railing just as fast.

 

She showered first, taking extra care to shave _everything_ – even though it wasn’t that kind of a date (no, not even).

 

But, still.

 

Then, with a careful precision that only Elizabeth Cooper could muster (thanks to her Type A personality, among other things), she pushed aside each thin, velvet hanger from the inside of her closet, considering what to wear.

 

After a few frenzied minutes of thumbing one too many _J. Crew_ sweaters with blasé cuts, it became apparent to her, much to her dismay, that her wardrobe (due to her mother’s overbearing nature and, of course, hellish helicopter-parenting style), was severely lacking in all things one would even consider “date-worthy.”

 

In the end, after venting her frustration aloud, Betty decided on _the outfit_ : a soft, flowing peasant top, and tiny, blue agate studs – a distinct aberration from her usual freshwater pearls or crisp, white diamonds – dark, denim jeans ( _with_ little to no _fraying_ , per her mother’s rules), and, of course, flats.  

 

Once she had gotten dressed – _and_ splashed her wrist with some eau de perfume (she had wanted something a little _sexier_ , so she had settled on _Valentino, Rock n’ Rose)_ – Betty examined herself in oval mirror atop her vanity.

 

The light of the setting sun behind the blinds caught the green in her eyes, suddenly, and the gold in her earrings – glinting like a spark against her reflection – brightened her irises, if only for a fleeting second. She wondered, then, whether _he_ would even _like_ her outfit?

 

Much less _notice_ it.

 

But, maybe.

 

She pulled her hair out of her taut ponytail, suddenly, letting it fall in loose, wild waves across her shoulders. _Now this_ , she decided, was _a look_.

 

 _And_ it was just what she needed. Tonight, even if it was only a wayward glance (she’d take anything at this point, even a soft, surprised half-smile – the one’s she’d seen and fell in love with before), he would notice her. This _would_ work, she reassured herself internally as she ran the tips of her fingers down the sides of her hair slowly, purposefully.

 

(It _had_ to).

 

Satisfied that she looked a little more _collegiate_ and decidedly less _peppy,_ Betty figured that she had better eat something, even if it was a frozen entrée, which her mother despised as there was no time to order pizza now.

 

She had already decided that she would be walking to his apartment. The idea, which she thought was a good one, had come to her while she was showering; she had considered how best to get him to drive her home _alone_ – even if it did take a bit longer than it would under normal circumstances to walk to his apartment. 

 

Right before she left, she had a very rushed dinner at the kitchen table, just barely finishing the food on her plate.

 

But as she was leaving, she was so immersed in her own appearance, in looking perfect _for him_ , that she, unfortunately, forget to clean – of all things – her dinner plate.

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Betty stood outside of Mr. Jones’s apartment door, waiting patiently. When she had finally found his apartment – no. **807 B** – after weaving through an endless hallway of similarly situated anterior black doors, she took a deep breath and swallowed. So, this was it, she thought, touching and tracing the letters of his apartment with her fingers – _this_ was Mr. Jones’s apartment. She was feeling nervous, sort of; it was a mixed feeling, one which was both wistful and sullen in the same instance. Before rapping the brass knob against the black door, which was situated beneath the view holder, she hesitated and quickly brushed her hair into the front of her face.

 

After she had knocked twice (and only, twice), Betty could hear the faintest sound of shuffling and what sounded like _just a second_ , and – _coming!_

_And,_ what sounded, faintly, like a piano solo the companion piece to _Rhapsody in Blue_.

 

Betty straightened up as she heard the door open. She looked up and when she saw him, she couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Betty, you’re here early, I –” Mr. Jones remarked, his voice cutting out suddenly – the words (and the rest of the sentence) abandoning him and his normally too-sharp-for-his-own-good brain completely. There was a long, inordinate pause, then – and he looked at her, really – and truly – looked at her, as if he was seeing her, once again, for the very first time.

 

Mr. Jones, who had been busying himself in the kitchen making hamburgers no less, was expecting her of course – his bright, happy student a bit _later_ – but this, _this_ , well, he had not expected to be quite so taken by her _again_ – and embarrassingly so, (though, it was not _unlike_ the soft evening they had shared at the park together), but –

 

 _Oh, what a vision she was._ And clothed in stark white. An angel, glowing alongside the neon, fluorescent hallway’s adjacent and artificial light.

 

And there was Betty, forgetting, even if only temporarily so, that she was _she_ and he was, well, _he_.

 

Mr. Jones smiled then, the soft, misty light of the hallway catching in his tired blue eyes.

 

And there it was. That smile of his, the one that she had been wanting _and needing_ for far longer than she’d even imagined.

 

And Betty, who had been standing there for more than an uncomfortable second, well, when she saw him smile – she couldn’t help but continue to smile, too.

 

Mr. Jones snapped himself out of his own self-induced enchantment, though, when he realized that she had been standing out there for more than a minute.

 

Jughead cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers. “Er, sorry,” he said kindly, deflecting the situation, “please, come in.”

 

With a happy heart, Betty took her first leap forward – a single, purposeful step, which landed inside the threshold of his apartment and once she was inside, she felt safer than she had felt in a long time as Mr. Jones shut the door quietly. All at once her senses were overwhelmed with how cozy and clean his spacious apartment was. She could tell straightaway – even when standing in the foyer – that it was a little bigger, and just a littler nicer than the standard one-bedroom apartment. She noticed, too, a few black and white pictures in thick, black frames lying adjacent to one another on the wall – one, with sinuous lines in the most popular style from the roaring twenties: Art Deco – and the other, well, she assumed it was some sort of refurbished antique movie poster; its title was lost on her though, as it was written in French beneath a chunky, charcoal grey sports car.

 

And as she took her surroundings in – little by little – there was another thing about the place that she liked already: its scent. It smelled light and homey, not _unlike_ his car, but with a slight variance, the place smelled of worn leather and old books, but the other scents, one of which was clearly bergamot, had the aroma of a ripe, aromatic orange – zesty with a pinch of fresh spice – and that last scent, well, she had immersed herself in it when she buried her face in his chest on the day he had caught her crying in _The Blue and Gold_.

 

The scent was him, plain and soft – a sensuous vanilla musk – unbridled, and yet, faint in the same instance. It was the same, oh it was, the very same scent she had imagined enveloping her, pushing up and into her, and filling her as his hair danced across her face and she kissed his imaginary likeness in the secrecy of her bedroom.

 

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” Mr. Jones asked kindly, tousling his own hair as if he was, for whatever reason, unsure of how to proceed – or what to say next.

 

Betty shook her head. “No.” She was still smiling.

 

“Good. Oh – and before I forget, did you park out front? It’s my fault for not telling you, but we might need to move your c–”

 

“I walked.” Betty wondered if she was being too obvious, but really, it was too late to worry about that now.

 

“Oh,” Mr. Jones remarked, shifting his stance a little, “that’s uh, that’s a long walk,” he said pointedly, “everything okay?”

 

Betty nodded.

 

“Good. Well, that’s no big deal. I’ll just drop you at home later,” he said calmly, removing his grey beanie and scratching his head “well, Betty, let me uh, let me show you around.” Jughead motioned for her to follow him. He grinned bashfully, then, as he looked down at the smooth wooden floors beneath his feet.

 

“Okay.” Betty bit her lower lip as he turned around; she followed him eagerly.

 

“So,” Jughead said, turning around to face her, “here we have the den, and as you can see,” he said motioning at the blue futon, “it’s basically just an under decorated living room, well, my reading room, actually,” he corrected with a light, shy smile. “You are more than welcome to come in here and study, read or whatever. And the futon is quite comfortable, but it can feel stiff if you sleep on it for too long, anyways –” Jughead pressed two fingers to his forehead and pushed them apart, gliding them across his brow. “Well, uh, onto the next room.”

 

Betty suppressed a laugh. For whatever reason, Mr. Jones seemed a little more flustered than normal, despite holding his composure. She found it endearing – and watching him run his own hands through his mussed-up raven curls – impossibly cute.  

 

But, in truth, nearly everything he did was cute to her, particularly his little idiosyncrasies. And in any event, she was just glad to be spending some time with him.

 

Even if it was just to _pet-sit_.

 

(She also hoped, secretly, that he had noticed the lengths she’d gone to look nice for him).

 

Betty followed Mr. Jones a few strides when he stopped suddenly at the open door of his bedroom. “And this is my bedroom.” Jughead cracked the door open, pressing the square edge of the door with his hand.

 

Curious, Betty peered inside the half-open door.

 

Mr. Jones turned and looked into the room. “You, uh, you are more than welcome to come in here, Betty, although I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said directly, raising his eyebrows at the door.

 

Betty’s jaw tightened. “Okay.” She shifted uncomfortably in place, which Jughead must have noticed because he quickly changed his tune and grinned at her.

 

“Betty.” Mr. Jones pulled his hand away from the expanse of the door and allowed it to close on its own. Then, as the door creaked and concealed a bit of the bedroom and as it moved back into place, Mr. Jones said softly, whilst looking down, “I just, well, I didn’t want you to know what a book hoarder I was – you might tell someone at school and I wouldn’t want _that_ getting out. I’m sure you understand, right _Ms. Cooper?_ ”

 

Relieved, Betty’s lips spread into a slow, contented smile; she let out a partial laugh, eyes widening as she looked at him as if to say: _are you being serious right now?_

 

“I uh – well, I don’t want to end up like those weirdo loners on that one tv show.” He looked up at her suddenly, playfully; there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, then, as he raised his eyebrows as much as the muscles in his face would allow. “Let’s go to the living room next, I’m sure Tinsel has already tried to climb out of her makeshift cage by now.”

 

Betty trailed close behind Mr. Jones, taking delicate steps forward; they retraced their steps as they walked back down the hall and to the front of the apartment.

And then, as they walked into the spacious living room, Betty heard a series of high pitched squeaks. Tinsel, it seemed, had heard them both coming and clearly, she wanted to make sure she wasn’t forgotten. Betty followed Mr. Jones over to a small little metal frame the shape of the box and looked down.

 

Betty’s eyes widened as her expression changed into one of quiet wonder.

 

Mr. Jones crouched down, causing the faded red and blue flannel shirt, which was tied tightly around his waist to loosen, the fabric arms slipping and bowing down the sides of his waist. “My your noisy, miss squeakers,” he remarked softly above her cage. He bent over then, and attempted to catch the tiny, busy kitten with his hands. “Come here little one,” he cooed, scooping the crying kitten up from the small, plush down comforter beneath her paws. “This,” he said, cradling the precious cargo in his hands and against his chest, “is Tinsel.”

 

Betty’s lips parted. Then, after petting the top of Tinsel’s head with the tips of her fingers, she tore her gaze from the tiny kitten to look up at him. “Can I,” she paused, watching his eyes watch hers too, “Can I _hold her?_ ” Betty licked her bottom lip then, unaware that the effect of which made Mr. Jones’s stomach twist suddenly, his abdomen now harboring a knot of repressed emotions, the likes of which were threatening expose themselves any moment in the form of the gentlest of touches (chaste ones, of course) against her hands or shoulders.

 

“Here.” Jughead cradled Tinsel’s delicate, warm body as he pulled her and her paws, which were stuck to his cotton T-shirt, from his chest. “Why don’t we sit on the couch in the living room and I will show you how to feed her.”

 

“Okay.” Betty’s eyes sparkled; her dark eyelashes flitted over the tiny body pressed lovingly against her chest. “Hi Tinsey.” Tinsel gave a few rapid blinks and then promptly shut her eyes and began to purr.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“I think she likes me,” Betty remarked, keeping her gaze affixed to Tinsel as she tiled her bottle of formula upwards.

 

“She likes anyone with a bottle of hot milk, I think,” Jughead retorted, a soft, contented smile plastered on his face as he looked at Betty, who was too enamored of the young ball of fluff to even take notice of him (and his very telling smile). He was admiring her, staring just a little: she was beautiful.

 

Betty tore her intent gaze from the soft bundle she was nursing back to health and looked up. She tilted her head to the side, frowning.

 

“But, yes,” he added suddenly, deciding that he didn’t like to see _that look_ – the look of disappointment plastered all over her face – ever. “She likes you _a lot_.” As if running on instinct, his hand pulled out from under him, but then he realized what he was doing; _no_ , he corrected, _no touching_. But then his gaze went, almost immediately, to the area on her face where he had doctored the wound to her face – a wound, which should have never, ever come from the person who _should_ love her most, _should_ keep her safe the most, but, much to his own vexation, _didn’t_. His hand, which, for whatever inexplicable reason, was no longer being controlled by his rational mind, jerked again. He was, he feared, losing all resolve; he had already lost control of his emotions – largely in part due to what had happened to her.

 

“Good. I want her to.” Betty went back to feeding Tinsel, whispering soft entreaties to her as she drank from the bottle: _drink up, little one_. She shifted beneath the blanket covering her legs and smiled.

 

Tinsel’s continued sucking on the flesh-colored nipple, squeaking on the occasion when its tip wasn’t angled at her liking near her tiny mouth.

 

But then, suddenly, when Betty felt _his_ hand against her cheek a split-second later, she almost – almost – dropped the clear, glass bottle, which would have caused it careen precariously down the side of the couch they were sitting on.

 

Mr. Jones ran his thumb beneath the tiny, barely-there, pink scar. “This healed nicely,” he remarked, gently pressing the edge of his thumb into her soft skin. He removed his hand just as quickly though, before Betty could say or do anything and cleared his throat. “Hey, are you hungry?” Mr. Jones shot up from the couch and turned away from her; Betty watched him longingly as he walked towards the kitchen, her lower stomach now aflame; she was endlessly and hopelessly his now, if and only if, he’d just _have her_.

 

And she thought of the woods again, strangely – those tall, lithe evergreens whose blackened silhouettes lie just beyond the expanse of the kitchen window, framing the Blossom’s antediluvian estate. She was running into them now, mentally running _into_ them – disappearing into their thick, oaken arms, the two of them blurring together – she and the dark green woods – becoming one, finally, as they swallowed her petite, willowy frame beneath their reedy branches whole.

 

Betty sighed contentedly, feeling Tinsel’s tiny frame sink down with her as she watched Mr. Jones walk around his kitchen.

 

“I, uh, I made hamburgers. And since you were here a little early, well, it seems only polite for me to offer you one too.” Jughead turned the stove on low, averting his gaze from hers and proceeded to move the shiny metal pan across the small, open flame.

 

“Okay.” Betty tried to ignore the intense swelling in her chest and the butterflies, which had resurfaced when he had touched her face.

 

“Also,” Mr. Jones remarked as walking over to a tall cabinet, still averting his gaze from hers, “before I forget,” he added, pulling a wooden door ajar, “this is where I keep my snacks, so when you’re here, and if you get hungry, help yourself.”

 

Betty giggled. “Is there popcorn _in there?_ ” She was, of course, alluding to his ridiculous penchant for mixing snacks, which she had noticed when she had bumped into him in the movie theater.

 

And Mr. Jones, who was focusing intently on _anything_ other than _her_ , was in the midst of trying to find the seasoning on the kitchen island, looked up suddenly, his gaze flitting to hers from across the room. “Yes,” he said in admission, shaking some pepper onto the hamburgers sizzling on the stove. He looked down at the red stovetop, then, adding somewhat flirtatiously, surprising himself just a little, “ _and_ there just might be some M&M’s in there _too_.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

The conversation they shared in his car on the way to the coffee shop was light and unhurried, but not without some underlying _tension_.

 

But Mr. Jones, who kept reminding himself that he was – still – _her teacher_ , made a concerted effort to ignore said tension, focusing, instead, on the road before them like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

 

Never mind that she was travelling on said highway, too, sitting beside his dark, leather seat and travelling down an uncharted – and possibly perilous path – _with him_.

.

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.

.

The local coffee shop in town, though spacious – had quite a few hidden, well-worn seats scattered here and there – and had a certain quiet intimacy about it, which rivaled Pop’s due to the various steps and catty-corners with seats partially concealed in the darkness of the café, its dim lights highlighting only the open stage and, of course, the coffee bar. And, despite the fact that there were quite a few people there, some of which were solely in its vicinity for the event later that evening, there were two people there, who, from all appearances seemed to have forgotten everyone else entirely.

 

Betty Cooper and Mr. Jones, after ordering two very over-poured steaming coffees (which he bought), were tucked away in their own little corner of the café, enjoying their own little private sliver of Riverdale.

 

And Betty, whose eyes left his – if only to make certain that she didn’t spill coffee on her delicate white blouse – was listening to him discuss his redlines – the final edits of her very first piece for _The Blue and Gold_ under his careful direction:

****

**_What Riverdale Needs: More Venues for The Arts and Less for the School’s Sports Teams_ **

 

And Mr. Jones, who appeared lost in thought, was rather serious about getting this piece in particular _just right_ ; he had a keen eye for editing – and she, well, she was keen on something else – as she watched his blue eyes darken, turning into two smoldering violet bulbs, glancing at her paper – darting this way and that – beneath the mist of the coffee shops hazy, floodlights. Betty sighed; she was thinking about how beautiful (and blue) his eyes were.

 

She smiled, then; it was a blissed out, all-too-contented kind of smile _because_ , for perhaps the first time in her young life, she, _Betty Cooper_ , no longer felt impossibly small. Or ignored. Or stupid.

 

Tonight, if _only_ for tonight, she was a forethought instead of a mere afterthought.

 

And it felt so, _so_ good.

 

“Do you think Principal Weathersby is going to be mad about what I wrote?” Betty eyed him curiously, taking a sip of her coffee. Her eyes never left his.

 

“No,” Mr. Jones laid the paper down on the shared table in front of them, “I don’t think so, I mean, if he does get mad – so what. You’ll be out of there in less than a months’ time anyways and besides, I’m your _faculty_ _adviser_ , so if anyone’s heads going to end up served up on a silver platter, it’ll be mine instead,” he said humorously, a faint, distant twinkle in his cerulean eyes.

 

Reassured, Betty set her cup of coffee down on the table in front of her. “That makes me feel a bit better.” Then, Betty noticed some movement on the stage from behind where Mr. Jones was sitting. “It looked like their getting ready to start.” She nodded past him.

 

“Oh.” Jughead tore his gaze from hers and turned around. “Hey, I better get ready then, will you be alright here by yourself?” Mr. Jones was still worried about her and given what he’d seen recently, well, he didn’t want her to feel abandoned ever – at least, not by him.

 

“I think I should be fine.” Be smiled.

 

“Okay,” Mr. Jones said, pushing his hands against the cushion of his chair and standing up. Betty watched as he fished around for something in his pocket – a piece of folded notebook paper, which emerged from the folds of the fabric two seconds later. He was about to walk in the direction of the stage, but before doing so he turned around. “Wish me luck?”

 

“Good luck.”

 

Betty watched as Mr. Jones made his way over to the stage. Then, he stopped in front of it for a second and pulled his gray beanie off his head. He ran his hand through his hair before replacing the beanie a second later as the man who was holding the black microphone began conversing with him.

 

As Betty watched Mr. Jones take the stage, she sat up straight, wondering idly if he would look at her (if, at all) when he began reading.

 

“Um, thank you for having me,” he uttered shyly, his voice firm yet reserved; he smiled a little, averting his gaze from the audience as he looked downwards. “My name is Jughead Jones and I’m currently a teacher at Riverdale High, well, a _substitute_ English teacher,” he corrected promptly, adding, “and this,” he thumbed the piece of paper, “well, this is something I wrote a long, long time ago – and later corrected in grad school,” he started. “It’s entitled _Lonesome Dreams_.”

 

Betty stiffened in her seat; she was watching him intently, a look of all out wonder plastered across her face. She was curious. What was this about, she thought quizzically, now strangely intrigued as she watched Mr. Jones intently as he adjusted the black microphone in front of him. She swallowed, then.

_Look at me_ , she thought, _please_.

 

And a beat later, after the lights had dimmed and Mr. Jones had introduced himself –  _and_ read aloud the title of his piece to the audience before him – _he did_.

.

.

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. 

As Mr. Jones drove the two of them across town and in the general direction of her house, Betty glanced over at him, smiled brightly, and then looked back at the road ahead as they passed the vibrant downtown area, his vehicle sweeping past several well-lit street lamps like a fleeing metal phantom. It was late now, very late, and the evening sky, which was of a rich midnight blue – a blend of cobalt and cyan, like thinned, bleeding paint – enveloped the outside of Mr. Jones’s truck protectively – its shadows gliding along smoothly as the truck continued along the indented pavement.

 

And the moon – ah, the moon – for once, she had put herself away, hidden herself beneath the blackness of the night – if only to give the two of them a fighting chance at _this_ – a shared moment of quiet happiness, a mere moment to simply be – even if it was, like the approaching summer months, a transient and fleeting time.

 

But _sweet_ , nevertheless.

 

Betty glanced over her shoulder to study him. She had been ruminating over the poem he had read earlier at the coffee shop, wanting to know what it meant. (Though, she thought she already knew.) She had declined to ask him at the coffee shop, however, for fear that broaching the subject in question – his youth – might make him uncomfortable.

 

But when he grinned at nothing a second later, his bright smile illuminating his face, she decided to take the plunge and ask him anyways.

 

With her gaze still fixed on him, she swallowed. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” She whispered as her body stilled against the leather seat. Her voice sounded so faint against the noise of the engine that she half-worried that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t even heard her.

 

“You can ask me anything, Betty,” Mr. Jones said quietly, keeping his eyes focused on the road. Then, as if he had realized that the word _anything_ , may have been a Freudian slip, and a little too inviting (he was, after all, still _her teacher_ ), Mr. Jones, redacted said statement by adding with a sharp glance to his right, catching her eyes for a split-second, “well, almost anything.”

 

Betty breathed in and out quietly. “That poem you read…in the coffee shop.” She paused, then, choosing her words carefully, “was it,” she asked gently, “was it about when you, you know, first got emancipated.” She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, adding just as quickly, “I, sorry, you don’t have to –”

 

“No,” Mr. Jones interjected calmly, “no, it’s okay, Ms. Cooper. You can ask that, of course,” he said to reassure her. Then, he glanced over at her; she looked decidedly nervous, so he added, “I love talking about writing, as I’m sure you’ve come to figure out by now.”

 

Betty’s eyes sparkled. She grinned, her head still resting against the headrest behind her as she looked at him. _He’s not mad, okay._

 

“Yes,” he admitted. “That’s partly what it was about anyways. Well, that and suddenly being on your own for the very first time. It’s great. It’s the best feeling in the world, really. Your finally free, you know, free to dream, but – it’s just – well, it can get a little lonesome being _that free_. Especially in my case. I mean, I was really, really young.”

 

“I wish I could experience that feeling,” Betty whispered into the car, more so to herself. “I really want to know what that’s like.” Betty’s breathing hummed with the engine of the car as her chest heaved up and down.

 

Mr. Jones realized then what she was talking about; the topic had obviously segued into something else. “You will, Ms. Cooper,” he said huskily, clearing his throat. “Listen, Betty, I –”

 

But whatever he was about to say next, an admission perhaps, that _this_ – whatever they were doing – had turned into something _more_ , was interrupted (and maybe it was for the best) by the sound of her phone buzzing loudly against her thigh.

 

“Oh no.” Betty stared at the blue screen, mouth agape. It was her mother, who was angry that she’d left out her dinnerplate. “No,” she repeated to herself, sheer panic setting in this time.

 

 ** _How stupid are you, Betty,_** the text read, followed by, **_I asked you to keep the kitchen clean, and you still left out your dirty dishes. Really??? Please, for the love of god, learn to clean up after yourself. I won’t ask you again, Elizabeth._**

 

“Is everything okay, Ms. Cooper?” Mr. Jones furrowed his brow; he glanced at her once and then looked back at the road. They were minutes, if even that, from the front entrance of Betty’s house. He could already see it up ahead; it was well-lit, and the yard looked like it had been freshly mowed even in the distance. He wondered then, how such a house of horrors looked more like an open house – welcoming and a little empty. But then – then – he remembered his own upbringing and all at once, he knew.

_A shell,_ he decided, that’s exactly the outside of the house was, really. A façade. And anyone who was curious enough to lift the covering from its gables, well, then, surely they would see it ( _and_ her mother) for what they really were.

 

Betty swallowed and shook her head. Her throat felt raw. And _god_ , she really didn’t want to go home to _that_.

 

A minute later, after Mr. Jones had pulled up to the front of her house and parked his truck. He looked over at her, waiting. He didn’t want her to go inside until he knew she was okay.

 

(He wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly otherwise).

 

"My mom thinks I'm stupid." Betty put her head down and placed her hands in her lap and sighed.

 

"Hey," Mr. Jones said softly, brushing his hand against her shoulder, "That simply isn't true, Betty."

 

Betty looked up from the passenger side of his car, hoping to see the same warmth in his eyes again that she saw before, the very same comfort he had given her when he had doctored her wound in _The Blue and Gold_.

 

She looked up then, their eyes locking the darkness of his car, the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face. She could feel his fingers tense against her should, then relax. His breathing, though nearly silent, felt hot against her face, her neck. And the light outside, it had caught in his irises suddenly, turning them a piercing shade of dark blue.

 

The edge of her tongue, as if it had a mind of its own, brushed against her bottom lip as she allowed herself to study his eyes, to get lost in them – and their cool blueness – all over again. They looked, unexpectedly, like two orbits of blue fire, tempestuous but static, as the light outside, soft and hazy, illuminated them suddenly, only to leave them a split second later.

 

"You're not stupid," Jughead breathed into the darkness of the car. Then, he swallowed and that was when Betty noticed a change in his countenance. Something shifted between them suddenly; she could sense it, feel it. She watched, then, as he moved his face closer to hers, they're breaths a spare space apart and their lips, mere inches away. "For whatever its worth, Betty, I think you’re a really bright, capable young lady."

 

At that, her stomach did a quick, internal somersault. His words, though few, meant so much to her, so very much.

 

At last, she thought, someone thinks _you matter_.

 

She was bright, nay, bright _and_ capable, he had whispered between them, almost like a secret –

the two things that she had wanted so badly for someone – anyone – to say to her, even if, yes, even if it wasn’t her own mother. And that would have been fine, their interaction could have ended there – on a high note – _except_ , she saw it then: Jughead's eyes darted to her lips as his upper teeth grazed the bottom of his soft lips. Then, he looked back up at her.

 

Betty could feel her heart racing now. She was sure she was reading too much into this, surely?

 

But he was still giving her that same _look_.

 

After another second, Jughead moved his hand away from her shoulder, smiled and said, "You should...probably go inside, Ms. Cooper. It's getting late," he said lightheartedly, straightening his back as he rubbed his thumb against the steering wheel absentmindedly.

 

“Yeah, okay.” Betty swallowed and nodded. “Hey, Jug –”

 

The term of endearment, his nickname, caught him off guard suddenly. He turned his body again, looking her straight in the eyes. He was listening, willing his heart, which had begun to beat just a little fast, to slow the hell down.

 

“Thanks for tonight,” she whispered gratefully, adding with a hint of desperation in her voice, “really.”

 

“Of course, Ms. Cooper.” He watched as Betty grabbed her purse from the floor of his truck and proceeded to open the car door. And just then, when she was outside and had shut the car door, he called back to her. “Hey, Betty.” Mr. Jones swallowed, unsure of whether he should open the proverbial Pandora’s box _here_ and _like this_.

 

(Though, in truth, he already had).

 

Betty turned to look at him, then, the softest, purest expression on her face. He knew that expression well; it was one of hope. The night air whipped through the length of the sidewalk suddenly, catching a few strands of her hair in its singular, clear breeze.

 

Mr. Jones pulled his beanie from his head, fingering his scalp gently. He was concerned about her, still, and didn’t want her to feel like she was alone or without recourse against her home situation. “Listen, if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me, okay?” He wondered if that was enough – no, probably not, he decided. Then, he added, “And don’t,” Jughead lowered his hand from his head, “look, don’t hesitate to use my apartment – I mean, if you need to, you know?”

 

Betty smiled. “Okay.” She knew what he meant; he meant for her to use his apartment – if she needed to – as a kind of safe haven. And she would.

 

(Though she wished, idly, that he would be there – _and_ be exactly _that_ to her, too).

 

Because he kind of already was.

 

“I should probably go in,” Betty urged gently, pointing behind her. She brushed her hair away from the front of her face and smiled, then. “Thanks again.”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

Mr. Jones watched as Betty walked up the steps of her house, a slight hesitation in her steps. He wondered, then, if he ought to run out of the car instead, grab her, kiss her senseless and take her away from here, take her somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all the monsters in this god-forsaken town, whose monsters went by the name of ‘mom.’

 

(And, unfortunately for him: ‘dad.’)

 

But alas, he couldn’t. No, not tonight. For she was, sadly, still _his student_.

 

And for that reason alone, he let her slip quietly away, though it pained him greatly.

 

And, after all was said and done, after Betty’s lithe form had disappeared from the night and into her house, Mr. Jones banged his head on his steering wheel in frustration, he looked up slowly from the leather clutch, his dark hair falling into his face as he did so. He saw the woods in front of his tired blue eyes, then – the woods just beyond the expanse of the Cooper’s house – and had a singular and unwavering thought.

 

Some things, even a mysterious forest of thick, impossible trees, are meant to be explored _eventually_.

 

Despite the dangers lurking behind them –

 

Or tangled up in their long, cumbersome branches.

 

And so, with a heavy heart, Mr. Jones took once last look at the house, sighed, and started the engine of his truck.

 

But as he drove down the street, her house disappearing in the distance, he thought of her, then.

 

And _only_ her.

_________

 To be continued. 

 

 

 

 

 

_**Author's Personal Note: So...this is probably the longest (and most epic) chapter update I've written to date - largely due, in part, to the sheer length of the thing. :D** _

_**(Like holy crap, guys, this chapter was a bitch to write...pardon my language, but it was!)** _

 

_**I know I haven't been active on here in a good, long while, so it is my hope that the length of this chapter makes up for that a little. I have a lot going on in my personal life right now, which has, unfortunately, put my fic writing on the back-burner. (Though, not by choice!)** _

 

_**Here is the playlist for this chapter:** _

  * _**[The Warrior](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47y5bo8wtqM)by Scandal (this is the song playing in the kitchen during the girls 'loaded' game of "Truth or Dare")**_
  * _**[Frozen Pines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OlHVrYRcPvE)by Lord Huron **_
  * _**[Meet Me In The Woods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5axbaGBVto) by Lord Huron (inspired this chapter's title)**_
  * _**[Under The Milky Way](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mA54NBtPKdI)by The Church **_



 

_**And in case you can't tell - I love music and love, love, LOVE Lord Huron. They're amazing. Seriously. Check them out - you won't be able to stop listening to them.** _

 

_**As always, comments are appreciated. <3 -Starry ** _


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